


Ill Manors

by Salomonderiel



Series: Ill Manors [2]
Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Family, Humour, Multi, Romance, if i've done my job this fic will rip your heart out and messily stich it back together again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 03:06:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salomonderiel/pseuds/Salomonderiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone always asks Q, when they get to know him, what his name is. After all, it's awkward, getting a drink or going to the movies with someone and just calling them a letter.<br/>The truth? He doesn't know what his name was.<br/>They might have used his name, when he was young and going through orphanages like a knife through butter. But then he finds himself at an orphanage on an estate, where most of the kids use their room numbers rather than names. And, strangely enough, it's the orphanage where he has no name that he finds himself a home. </p>
<p>I've created my own back story for Q, as he grows up in an orphanage on an estate. It's primarily a story about family, and there's gangs and death and it's chock FULL of OCs, but, hopefully, they're all gonna break your heart anyway. The <b>rape isn't explicit</b>, nor is it Q, I don't even use the word 'rape', and it's only OCs that die. </p>
<p>Guest appearance of the old Q at the end, and 00Q will be present in later works in this series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Came Out Of The Darkness With A Bullet In My Hand

**Author's Note:**

> If you clicked on this, knowing it's primarily with OCs, then I LOVE YOU.
> 
> To make your life easier as you read, the age of each character when Q (Seventeen) first joins the estate orphanage:  
> Seventeen: 7  
> Vans: 10  
> Indie: 11  
> Storm: 14  
> Brain: 14  
> Nineteen: 15  
> Timmons: 16  
> Three: 16  
> Eight: 17  
> Mrs Hopkins: 53
> 
> Now please. Enjoy.

He was born in a hospital to a woman with no name.

According to his files, he had a grand total of 43 minutes with his mother, before she died. And she died before the doctors could get any details from her. Apparently, she’d staggered into A&E already too far into her contractions.

As per protocol, social services were called, a menial name was written on his birth certificate, and he was officially decreed an orphan.

And so began his journey through orphanages.

It wasn’t so much that he was a bad child, so much but he didn’t seem to get on well with peers, children his own age. They would try and talk to him, and decree him unusual. He would then get bullied.

He never used physical violence. He would never pull a girl’s hair, bite another boy, kick anyone. That much the social workers could always be certain of. They could also be relatively sure that this boy was inventive, and clever. And yet, his lower school teachers had labelled him a daydreamer, who rarely paid attention.

He was moved from tougher to tougher orphanages, moving between areas of London middle of his school years, for reasons that varied between taking apart the staff’s TV, which had been in her locked office, to scaring one of the social workers by watching her. She didn’t explain more – just watching her.

He was barely 7, when he landed in a shabby building, east end, a single-sex orphanage directly next to a council estate. Government funded establishment, but apparently the government had long since forgotten about them. Paint was peeling, beds were broken, there was damp, and a TV that seemed to be from several decades previous. The outside walls were buried under graffiti. Burnt out fags surrounded the doorway. The social worker in charge of this particular orphanage had a self-rolled fag between her lips as the young boy was dropped off.

She put him his own room, only distinguishable from a cupboard by the bed squeezed into it. There was a rail for him to hang clothes on, that had two hangers on it. The number ‘17’ had been scratched into the wood. When she calls him down for dinner, that number is what she calls.

He’s not too fussed. He’s never felt much affection towards the name the doctors gave him. A number could be just as much his name as that assignation of a random British name. And he finds he prefers numbers to most people, anyway.

So when she and others yell Seventeen, he answers.

The second youngest child at the Estate’s orphanage is 3 years older than him, at the grand old age of ten. The next oldest is 13. The majority of them seem to be around 14, 15. They could have ripped the new 7 year old apart.

His survival was down to pure luck. The right colour eyes, messy enough hair to remind an older boy of another young boy, lost too many years prior.

After his first dinner – a formal enough occasion, the woman in charge, a Mrs Hopkins, demanded the entire house to be present – he was in the playroom, watching the few that were lingering, at the well-worn and scratched pool table, around the TV, slouched in corners talking. One of those around the TV caught him watching, and asked, aggressively, why.

He didn’t answer. In truth, he didn’t have an answer to give, really.

So the older boy – around 14 – asked again. He still didn’t get an answer. And he didn’t seem to like that.

When the boy grabbed the new kid by the neck of his top, pulling him from the armchair, the young child didn’t know what to do, couldn’t do anything but try not to cry. He’d felt pain before, knew he was going to feel it again now.

But then one of the older boys – the one who found the young kid familiar – pulled the kid from the outcast’s grip, picking him up in a way that spoke of experience, letting the kid sit on his arm, holding him against his side. He yelled at the 14 year old, words the kid didn’t yet understand, as two of the other boys, not so old, shoved the outcast back. When the outcast spat at the kid, the older boy, a sixteen year old shoved his shoulder, pushing him fiercely until the outcast ran from the room.

Then, the older boy – Eight, from room 8, the kid found out later, – leaned back, frowning into the kid’s face. “You okay boy?” he asked, asking the question more seriously than the kid had ever heard.

So he thought about his answer, before he nodded.

Eight nodded back. “Good,” he muttered. “Twenty-two’s a cunt. Keep away from him, okay? You stick with us, kid.”

Other boys nodded, muttered agreements. One of them ruffled the kid’s hair.

“Message received,” the kid muttered, the first words he’d spoken at the orphanage.

Eight cracked a smile at that, lopsided. “You’re strange,” he said, saying the words contemplatively, a wry tone in his voice. “But you’re good, little brother.”

 

*Spring, 1990*

 

“The TV works.”

Seventeen was curled up, small and pretty much unnoticeable in what was fast becoming his usual armchair in the corner of the playroom. Usually he could stay there for hours, way after his allotted bed time, before one of the older boys would poke him out and up to his room. The few time he’d fallen asleep there, he’d woken up, tucked under the sheets on his bed.

But now, several of the boys were turning to him. Eight’s gaze flickered up from where he was playing snooker with another of the older guys – Timothy or some name similar – before he looked back down, already smiling.

Two of the guys lounging in front of the TV, however, didn’t look away again after Seventeen had spoken up. “Oh yeah?” one of them asked, the faintest hint of a Scottish accent in his voice. “It’s a good job you pointed that out, kid, none of us would have noticed otherwise.”

“And here we were, thinking we were staring at a blank screen,” the guy next to him laughed, shoving a brother playfully.

Shuffling slightly, pulling himself upright by looping an arm over the armrest, Seventeen pursed his lips and pushed his glasses back up his nose. “It shouldn’t work,” he muttered.

“Oh, shouldn’t it, kid?” the Scottish boy asked again, letting his head fall backwards, so he was looking at Seventeen upside down. “We remembered to press that ‘on’ switch, y’see, and put the plug in, and voila! A functioning-”

“But it shouldn’t function like _that_ ,” Seventeen insisted, head starting to hurt. He knew the Scottish one knew what he meant, it was clear, but he wasn’t _listening_. Seventeen’s fingers started to tap on the worn leather of the chair, pushing himself to his knees.

“Really? A wee kid like y’self knows a thing or two about how a TV should work, d’you?” The Scottish kid had turned around now, sitting with elbows resting on bent knees, head tilted and eyebrows raised sceptically.

It was disconcerting, having the usually buzzing room silent, eyes focused on him. Feeling bigger than he was, Seventeen felt his skin shiver, and wanted to curl back up again, sink into the chair and in his too-big jumper. Nothing good came of talking about TVs and phones and computers, he’d learnt that through other kids kicking and hitting him. He hadn’t liked that. He didn’t know why he’d opened his mouth then.

“S’okay, boy,” Eight said suddenly, from the corner. Unlike everyone else, he was still playing balls, not focused on Seventeen. “They’re not going to have a go at you. Think they’re just hoping they’ll get to see Twenty-four shot down for once.”

When several boys chuckled, and Twenty-four shrugged good-naturedly, Seventeen felt some confidence return. “Uh,” he said, his throat feeling dry. He tugged at the bottom of the jumper, trying to pull it over his knees. “That channel – we don’t have a satellite, a box, the leads – we shouldn’t have access to that channel.”

The Scottish Twenty-four wasn’t smirking anymore. “Leads, eh?” he asked, head tilting slightly. “What’re the leads telling you then, kid?”

He was listening. He was _listening_ to Seventeen. Suddenly, feeling big felt good. He shifted again, straightening his legs and letting them swing over the edge as he peered hard through his glasses, staring at the mess of wires at the bottom of the TV, where they went, what sockets they were plugged in... And frowned again. “That’s stealing,” he said indignantly.

And the whole room simultaneously burst out laughing.

“Am I wrong?” Seventeen asked, chewing at one of his lips. He knew he wasn’t. He didn’t _think_ he was. But he didn’t know why they were laughing, unless he’d been stupid, silly, weird...

“Nah, kid, y’right,” Twenty-four chuckled. “But, t’be fair, they stole our satellite dish first, so we’re more... _reclaiming_ , than stealin’.”

“But don’t tell Hopkins,” another boy added hurriedly, other nodding and murmuring agreements. “Miss don’t know about it, hasn’t even noticed the dish’s gone.” Seventeen nodded furiously, reassuring them that he understood. Even only a few weeks into his stay at the Estate orphanage, he could see how protective they were of their carer – so much so to the point that it seemed they were the carers, not her.

“Looks like you’ve got a challenger, Brain,” Eight called across. Seventeen was momentarily confused, before Twenty-four laughed in reply. “Or a protégée.”

“Let’s go with that latter option,” Twenty-four said, turning to look back at Seventeen, who still wasn’t sure if he was meant to try and hide in his jumper again or not. “Yeah, I think I’m likin’ that latter option.”

Seventeen didn’t know what ‘protégée’ meant. But he was getting the idea that it was a good thing.

 

*Autumn 1991*

 

In the orphanage, there were some kids who answered to numbers – Eight, Nineteen, Three – but many of them had adopted names of their own. Twenty-four had adopted the nickname Brain for his own, and there were others, Timmons, Storm, Indiana, there was even Vans, the blonde ten year old who had the room next to Seventeen, who had apparently taken his name from the shoes he always wore. But still, Mrs Hopkins would call everyone by their room numbers to a duty, or to dinner, and everyone would always respond.

“It’s ‘cause of her memory,” Eight explained one afternoon, sat at the desk crushed into the corner of his room, working on his homework. Seventeen was sat on his bed, fiddling with a remote Brain had given him. “She used to know names – pretty sure she knew mine, back in the day – but it’s getting hard for her to... s’the word?”

“Recall?” Seventeen muttered, gently prising two wires apart under his thumb.

“That’s it. Yeah, she can’t seem to recall names as clearly. Can’t seem to recall much at all, really, as of late.”

Seventeen looked up frowning, pausing with his deconstruction for a second. Eight’s pen had stopped scratching on the paper, mid equation. He waited – Eight didn’t continue. “How do numbers help?” he asked, eventually.

With a start, Eight blinked and came back. “Oh – they don’t, really. She doesn’t know who’s who just by lookin’ at them. But the only time she needs to call us is for dinner, an’ there’s a list of the occupied rooms on the fridge.” He licked his lips once, frowning at the sheet before him, before his eyes lit up and he started writing again. “Us older ones, she can recognise occasionally. But we find, sticking to numbers, makes it easier for her. She knows it’s a kid from her place, at least.”

Seventeen let the pen scratch away in the background. He contemplated the circuits, lights and wires laid out before him, before he started to reassemble them... slightly differently. “Shouldn’t someone be told?” he asked, the question falling from his lips. He mentally scolded himself – _think_ , _think before you talk, squirt_ , Brain’s voice sounded in his head.

“Huh?” Eight’s chair squeaked as he turned his head to look at Seventeen over his shoulder. Seventeen didn’t look up to meet his gaze, too busy trying to prise a wire into place. “Oh – d’you mean about Mrs Hopkins? She’d lose her job, boy. Be put in a home. No... we can look after her well enough. I pay rent, near enough. Get through this exam season, then I can be here full time. Same for Timmons, and Three said he’ll donate what he can, from the piss-poor amount the military’ll pay ‘im – if we all can’t persuade him not to go.”

“Can I help look after her?” The final piece of plastic clicked into place on the remote, and Seventeen finally raised his head to look back at Eight.

Eight was smiling at him, fondly, almost. “Give it a year or two, kid. You don’t get to look after anyone until you’ve reached double figures, ‘kay?”

“But I have reached double figures,” Seventeen protested, raising first all ten fingers, then just seven. “Seven – teen. _You’re_ just Eight.”

“I’m also _eighteen_ , in years, whilst you’re not even nine yet,” Eight tittered back. He looked once more at his homework sheet, then sighed, and pushed his chair back. “I’ll finish it later,” he muttered, rising and turning to the door. As he passed his bed, he reached out, ruffling Seventeen’s hair with one hand, and scooping up the remote with the other. “You gonna stick to that, then, boy?” he asked, pinching the tip of Seventeen’s ear lightly between his fingers.

Scowling, Seventeen whacked the hand away, but Eight just laughed and grabbed Seventeen’s cheek lightly for a few seconds instead. “You Seventeen, then?” Eight repeated, smile sticking in place as he lounged back against the doorframe.

Seventeen paused, thinking about the name he’d had social workers and teacher yell at him, the other names he’d been called by other kids. The surety of numbers and sums. The vacant expression Mrs Hopkins had had on her face as she watched the kids filter into the kitchen that morning.

There was a number carved onto the door of his home. He liked it. “Yeah,” he said, nodding sharply.

His chest warmed when Eight’s smile grew. “C’mon then, Seventeen,” he said, titling his head to the corridor, and by extension downstairs. “Let’s go see how badly you’ve broken this, then, shall we?” Eight laughed as he tossed the remote in the air and caught it, before turning and striding away towards the stairs.

Furious, Seventeen hurried to scramble off the bed, and run as fast as his shorter legs would let him after his older brother. “Hey! I _haven’t_ _broken it!”_

 

*Summer, 1992*

 

Crying wasn’t fun, Seventeen decided. But being in pain was less fun and crying seemed to stop his knees hurting much, so he kept crying.

It wasn’t as though he had much choice, though. He couldn’t seem to breathe properly, and no matter how hard he sniffed snot kept running from his nose. And the world was all blurry with water, too, no matter how much he rubbed his face against Eight’s shirt.

“There there, kiddo,” Eight murmured, a hand rubbing against Seventeen hair, the other under Seventeen’s bum, so he could be carried through the house without having to walk. “You’re fine, brave little man, you’re fine.”

It was nice, being carried like this. He could hide against Eight’s shirt and pretend that no one else existed. When he opened his eyes again the world would be better again and Vans would be there to play games with, or there’d be cake and his legs wouldn’t hurt any more.

He knew where Eight was taking him when he heard the creak of the door. Only one door in the house creaked that loudly. Eight had carried him to the playroom, good. Only good stuff happened in the playroom.

He sniffed again, sobbed as he tried to breathe, and rubbed his face against the flannel shirt and wiping off his tears and snot onto it. Eight sighed, and he tried to mutter an apology, but just hiccupped instead.

Someone else sighed, and he heard a voice say, “Oh, no.”

Brain. Brain always made things better. Eight and Brain would make things good again.

“The kid fell over while he was tryin’ to play football with Nineteen, Storm and Timmons,” Eight muttered, taking a few more slow steps forwards before stopping. “’kay kid, if I let you go now d’you think you’ll be a man about it?”

But he didn’t want to be left yet. He shook his head, small fingers tightening against Eight’s shirt.

“How about if we let you sit between us?”

Seventeen thought for a second, before nodding slowly. He let Eight pull him back, and lift him up off his arm and down onto the sofa. The instant Eight let go of his sides Seventeen scrambled across the sofa towards Brain, pressing himself against his brother’s side, wiping his face on his own sleeve.

“Aw, boy, what’ve ya gotten yourself into,” Brain tutted, shaking his head and leaning forwards, one arm looping around Seventeen’s shoulders. “Aye, those are mighty wounds you’ve got there!” he exclaimed, the finger of his free hand pointing at the grazes showing on Seventeen’s knees. “I bet you got them in some _really_ impressive fall,” Brain said knowledgably, peering down at Seventeen, green eyes sparkling beneath his floppy brown fringe.

Not wanting to disappoint, Seventeen nodded eagerly. After all, it _had_ been quite impressive. “It was,” he said quickly, turning to look up at Eight, make sure Eight heard him as well as he settled into position on Seventeen’s other side.

“It was indeed,” Eight agreed, grinning and ruffling his hair.

Pride swelled Seventeen’s chest, and between hiccups, he smiled.

“I think that a warrior like yourself needs some proper sustenance,” Brain said seriously, leaning away for a second but Seventeen didn’t mind, because he was curious to see what Brain was doing. Seconds later, Brain straightened up with a mug in his hands. “Now, m’afraid I’ve drunk some already,” he apologised, “But I think you deserve this hot chocolate more than I do.”

Seventeen’s jaw fell, and he spun to look up at Eight with wide eyes. He had to tug at Eight’s shirt to get him to look away from Brain, to get him to smile down at Seventeen too with eyes just as wide, before spinning back towards Brain and carefully reaching out to take the mug.

It was really creamy and soft and sweet, like only Brain could make it.

He couldn’t _wait_ to show off his wounds to Vans.

 

*Autumn, 1992*

 

Seventeen had _used_ to have to use the footstool and jump to peer over the back of the armchair, but now he could just stand on tiptoe on the stool to get a good look at what Brain was doing on his laptop. Usually it was something exciting, like a car game. Sometimes it was something dull, like girls with very little on.

Today, it was something _super_ exciting. The computer screen was covered in lists of numbers.

“Whassat?” Seventeen asked, the words muttered by how the lower half of his face was pressed into the well-worn upholstery. The jump Brain gave made Seventeen smirk.

“ _Christ_ , kiddo,” Brain cussed, shaking his head and playfully reaching over his head to try and swat the young boy. “I thought I’d set ya on the washin’ machine!”

“You did. I fixed it. I’m now bored,” Seventeen reeled off, before swing an arm up to point at the screen. “Whassat?” he repeated.

The sigh Brain gave was one of a man who long knew he’d lost the battle. “That, m’wee bro, is the orphanage’s bank-balance. All the money ol’ Mrs Hopkins has to look after us, is in that wee box there,” he said, finger jabbing at the number at the bottom left of the screen.

“That’s... not a big number,” Seventeen muttered. All he knew about money was that for a few pennies he could get a Freddo. The number Brain was showing him wouldn’t get the orphanage many Freddos.

“Oh, aye, you’re right there,” Brain muttered, in the voice that usually meant the playroom wouldn’t have bright talk and laughter in it for a while. “Lemme see...”

Seventeen knew better than to talk when Brain was typing fast on his computer, even though questions were buzzing on his tongue, what he was doing, what new window he’d opened, what those green symbols were, what that phrase meant...

He watched, and he memorised, step by step. Understanding could come later, for now he’d just remember.

It took a few minutes – twenty, perhaps – but eventually Brain sighed out contentedly, leaning back into the armchair and letting his fingers circle the ‘enter’ button, before pressing down on it lightly.

As Seventeen watched, the low number in the bottom left hand corner, started to get bigger.

“Well now, I think I prefer that number, don’t you?” Brain asked, tilting his head back to grin up at Seventeen.

Oblivious to the wide, proud smile on his brother’s face, Seventeen stared, wide-eyed, at the screen. “That,” he said, a finger pointing at the green type on the screen. “I want that. Teach me that.”

 

*Winter, 1992*

 

He wasn’t often allowed out after school – Eight had _rules_. Middle of the day at weekends, or the first hour or so after school _if_ it was still light, _if_ he had at least two brothers with him –

But he was _ten_.

And he couldn’t help but puff out his chest as he walked to the nearest shops, ten pound note clenched in his hand. Eight had given it to him, Brain prodding him in the back to actually remind him, and he’d been told it was _all his_.

And okay, he wasn’t walking there _entirely_ alone – Brain was behind him, being laughed at and shoved around by Indie, but they weren’t right beside him.

And they didn’t speak for him when he bought his sweets, either.

It felt _good_.

As they were walking back, Indie picked up Seventeen up at the waist and lifted him to the sky, singing his praises as Brain laughed and Seventeen started to blush. Brain also pretended to steal a sweet but gave it right back, Indie joked about having to actually _listen_ to him now, and Brain promised to teach him how to access other computers through the internet, rather than go and hide in Eight’s room and talk ‘adult stuff’, like they did most nights nowadays.

It was a good day.

_Was_ a good day.

It wasn’t Seventeen who noticed them first, too busy trying to catalogue the sweets and work out which order he’d have to eat them in to make sure he had enough of each left by the time they got back – he didn’t realise there was anything going on until he realised Brain was muttering, and Indie was resting a hand on his shoulder and making him walk faster.

“What?” he asked, looking up between them. He didn’t have to look that high up to look at Brain anymore – he’d shot up recently, to quote Three, and was _proud_ of it. He was gonna be tall, Eight had said so. “Why’re we speeding up?”

“Skinny Scottish boy over there’s getting peaky,” Indie explained, tilting his head across to Brain. But he wasn’t smirking, and his eyes were moving too quick, and he was still walking faster.

“You’re lying,” Seventeen stated.

“Hush, kiddo,” Brain muttered. “Let’s just get home, yeah, and I can show you that trick o’ mine.”

“But you said-”

“Hey look boys, it’s the _orphans_.”

Seventeen didn’t know that voice. It didn’t sound nice. A thought reaffirmed by how Brain swore under his breath, and Indie started to ball his hands into his fists. Suddenly, as well as Indie’s hand on his shoulder, he also had Brain’s hand on the small of his back.

“Get the kid to the house, I’ll distract-”

“You’re not a fucking hero, Indie, don’t pretend to be, I’m not letting any of us get beat up,” Brain muttered fast – but he’d slowed to a stop. His hand lingered on Seventeen’s back, before he turned around, to face whoever was talking. Seventeen tried to turn around with him, but Indie’s hand on his shoulder was too strong.

“Gentlemen,” Brain said pleasantly, his accent suddenly becoming twice as strong as it was at home. “Pleasure, as always. But if you don’t mind, I think we’ll be getting out of your hair. Because, phew, I dunno what products you use, boys, but that _smell-_ ”

Usually, laughter would calm Seventeen down. Not this laughter. It was cold, and directed maliciously at his brother. He kept trying to turn around, to peer over his shoulder, but Indie’s fingers started to hurt where they were gripping his shoulder.

“Yo orphan, who’s the new bitch?”

Indie started to growl. Seventeen stopped wanting to turn around – his limbs had all frozen, fingers trembling on the paper bag of sweets clenched in his hands.

“Yeah, you got yourself a new house bicycle there, poof?”

“He’s a bit small, ain’t he? Barely looks like he could take even a skinny dick like yours, sicko.”

“Mm, but imagine how _tight..._ ”

Seventeen yelled out as Indie wrenched his hand from his shoulder, nails digging in momentarily and almost roaring as he spun to face them, fists clenched and ready. There had been fights, in the house, but he’d never seen Indie shake with the fury before. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like this, didn’t _like it_.

But Brain was there, and his hand was light and comforting as it ruffled his hair slightly. “No,” Brain said sternly, and though he could still hear Indie panting, he could no longer hear footsteps. “You try and take them, and they’ll have you on the floor in seconds. You _know_ I’m no help. We get home.”

“You want me to turn my _back-_ ”

“I’m _telling_ you to turn your back,” Brain hissed. Indie stepped back, back into Seventeen’s line of sight. He was ghost white, jaw clenched and eyes burning. “This close to the orphanage, they’re not going to pick a fight. We yell and the whole house comes running and they _know_ that. They just want us to chase them to their ground, the piss-poor cowards. We gotta get Seventeen _home_.”

Seventeen watched, paper bag rustling as his hands shook, as Indie nodded sharply. Brain’s hand started to push Seventeen forwards. Indie positioned himself behind the two of them.

He’d been called names before, been laughed at before. But he’d never felt scared before, not really.

He didn’t remember breathing, the entire walk back.

“Eight’s gonna want to hear about this, man.”

“And I’ll tell him, dinnae worry.”

“He’s gonna want to pay them _back_.”

“And I think I’ll let him.”

He let himself be manoeuvred through the hallway, into the playroom, into his usual chair. He didn’t complain as Brain wedged himself on it alongside him, though they didn’t fit as comfortably as they once had. Behind them, Indie was muttering to others – Vans, Three, Timmons – and Seventeen jumped at every expletive yelled. He was a grown boy now, but he still let himself lean into Brain’s hold.

Eight arrived back soon, a supermarket bag swinging from his hands. It was clear he knew something was wrong the instant he entered the room, his face falling and eyes hardening. “What?” he asked, eyes falling instantly on Brain and Seventeen curled up together.

“Eight,” Seventeen asked, speaking up for the first time since they got back, “What does it mean, to be called a bicycle?”

Perhaps that hadn’t been the right thing to say.

The supermarket bag hit the floor with a thud, batteries and screwdrivers falling out of it. He felt Brain stiffen against his back, and everyone in the room fell silent.

Not liking it, not liking the attention, Seventeen tried to burrow against Brain’s jumper, but Brain was pushing him back, trying to get to his feet. “I’ve gotta go speak with Eight for wee while,” he was muttering, brushing Seventeen’s hair as flat as it would go. “We won’t be long.”

“Are you going to talk adult stuff?” Seventeen muttered, sliding to the back of the armchair on his own, pulling his jumper down over his knees.

“Actually,” Brain muttered, glancing at Eight over his shoulder, “We are. See ya later, kiddo.”

Seventeen felt cold as he watched Brain pull Eight from the room.

But then people were talking, and Vans landed on the floor next to him and started talking, and Vans was always funny.

But Eight and Brain weren’t there.

By the time they were back, Seventeen was holding a hot chocolate in his hands and laughing along with the rest of them. Eight’s eyes still looked hard, but Brain made him squidge over on the armchair so he could teach Seventeen how to get into another computer through the internet, just like he’d promised, so it couldn’t be all bad.

 

*Spring, 1993*

 

It was a challenge, you see, to see if he could balance the mug, the fork, _and_ the slice of cake all on the one saucer, _and_ open the door as well, without dropping anything.

And he would have managed it, if Three hadn’t pulled the door open suddenly just as his foot was leaning against it, and caused him to fall forwards slightly. He managed to right himself before he fell over, but not before the fork slid off the plate and onto the floor.

Seventeen looked up at Three with a vicious glare. “I could have done it,” he said furiously.

Unresponsive to the veiled threat, Three just raised an eyebrow. “Mm-hm.” He crouched down, still not responding to Seventeen’s glares, and picked up the fork, turning it over in his hands rather than setting it back on the plate. “What the fuck’re you doing? Sounded like you were trying to kick the door in.”

“I was,” Seventeen said simply, leaving out the intricate details of how he’d been challenging himself.

Three looked at him for a second, then chuckled. He held the door open, and stepped back to let Seventeen in.

Curious, Seventeen ducked under Three’s arm into a room he’d only been in about two times before. It was kind of familiar, but he didn’t know the details of the room very well yet – the long big bag hanging from the ceiling was familiar, as well as the weights, the old wooden benches and the boxing gloves hanging off them, but he didn’t know the chairs, where they were in the room, the light switches, where the radio was, the latches on the window and where the cracks were in the floorboards, yet. He’d find them and learn them and trace them and fix them, eventually, he told himself, like he could already do with some other rooms in the house.

“Come for a kick-about? Or you here on some other mission?”

Oh, the cake. “Eight sent me with this,” Seventeen said, turning his attention from the room and back to Three, who was idly picking at strips of material wound around his hands. “He kicked me out of the playroom, where Brain was teaching me how a solar panel works, saying I had to give you this and that he and Brain had to talk about ‘old people stuff’,” he finished with an indignant huff.

Three’s lips lifted into the small smile, the biggest size smile he ever seemed to make. “Ah, fuck them,” he muttered, taking the cake and mug from Seventeen. He looked at them, forehead creased as he thought, before he turned and set the plate on a chair. “Do _you_ want to know adult stuff?” Three asked, not turning back to Seventeen but walking over to the punch bag hanging at the other end of the room. Only when Seventeen didn’t reply, did he look back over his shoulder at him. “Well?”

That really had to be a trick question. “Yes, please,” Seventeen said quickly, chest starting to swell with anticipation.

Smiling his small smile again, Three tilted his head in a silent ‘come here, then’ gesture. Seventeen hurried over, eyes wide, and Three stood by the punch bag and set his hands on either side of it, holding it still. “Eight’s gonna kill me for this, but fuck the overprotective prude, you grow up round here, you need to protect yourself.” Seventeen waited and watched, wide-eyed, as Three shuffled his feet, getting himself centred and solid. “Punch it.”

Seventeen didn’t move. To punch the bag would show that he had no idea how to punch something, and he didn’t want to admit that. But to ask how to punch would also be admitting ignorance, so he couldn’t do that either. So he stood there, chewing his lip, waiting for an answer to present itself or for Three to say something else.

Eventually, Three let out another low chuckle. “Here,” he said, stepping around slightly and releasing one hand from the bag to ball a fist up in demonstration. “All you need to remember – thumb outside, hit with your knuckles, chuck your weight behind it. Yeah, we’ll start simple for now.” Three mimed slamming his knuckles against the worn red material, then settled back into position.

Gearing himself, Seventeen took a big breath, his shoulders rising and chest puffing out, pulled his arm back, and finally _slammed_ it into the bag.

It _hurt_.

Three was laughing, as Seventeen stepped back and pulled his fist in against his chest, biting his lip, this time against the pain rather than the humiliation. “How d’you like that?” Three asked, humour clear in his voice.

“I prefer computers,” Seventeen muttered venomously. He purposefully ignored Three, when he dropped his hand companionably on Seventeen’s shoulder.

“Perhaps you might like it more if you got better at it?”

“Possibly,” Seventeen admitted grudgingly. Privately, he doubted it.

“I give Vans and Indie pointers Saturdays, if ya’d like to join?”

Vans was always boasting about his ‘kick-ass time’, coming and showing off new bruises he had and boasting about bruises he’d given Three. Seeing Vans next to the huge, muscled, thick set Three, it was hard to believe. It’d be good to prove that Vans was lying. Seventeen nodded.

“Okay. Want another go now?”

Seventeen shook his head fiercely, scowling.

“I’ll give you the slice of cake?”

This time, Seventeen hesitated with his denial, and that was all Three needed.

“Good. Now this time, try not to...”

 

*Autumn, 1994*

 

The door slammed behind them all, Seventeen almost tripping over the doorframe as Brain and Vans, laughing, slammed into him.

Within seconds, all three of them were rolling on the floor, cackling. When Seventeen was kicked in the shins, he gave back better than he got.

“Hey hey hey _hey_ , I have to _wash_ that floor you complete fuckers,” Three’s voice boomed down the corridor, and Seventeen vaguely saw a dustpan and brush getting tossed to one side before he was grabbed at the collar and lifted into the air by the thick-set newly graduated brother. A second later, a still giggling Vans was dangling from the other hand. “D’you think you could possibly _not_ track mud across the hallway? And then _roll_ in it?”

“What’ve they done now?” asked Eight, stepping into the hallway wiping his hand on a dishcloth, a slightly-too-small apron swinging loose from his neck. When he realised Vans and Seventeen were still giggling too hard to answer and that Three was just standing there, bemused, he sighed and crouched down next to Brain, tapping a finger against the underside of his chin until the young man (eighteen tomorrow!) was looking into his eyes rather than just sprawling aimlessly across the floor, racked in laughter. “What did you _do,”_ Eight sighed wearily.

“Nothing!” Brain protested, grinning. His eyes traced up and down Eight, and his mouth fell open and face lit up. “Have ye been _cooking-”_

“Boys?”

The instant Mrs Hopkins’ voice rang out through the corridor, Three dropped Vans and Seventeen to their feet, Eight straightened up, and Brain scrambled to his feet – admittedly taking three attempts to do so. “Yes Mrs Hopkins?” they all chorused, at slightly different speeds.

“We don’t have an Alex, do we?” she asked, eyes scanning each of them, the frown never really lifting.

Seventeen tried to leave his face blank. “No, miss,” he said, voice joining in with the denial of some of the others. “Why?”

“Got a call today, saying he hadn’t shown up to school for a week or two,” Mrs Hopkins muttered, shaking her head. She pursed her lips, thinking hard. “Anyway,” she said, voice lightening, and smiling wanly at them all, “You boys all enjoying school?”

“Yes Mrs Hopkins!” Seventeen chimed, along with Vans and Brain. Any feeling of guilt from saying that lie, from denying knowledge of that name, had left a long time ago.

Something beeped from the kitchen, and Mrs Hopkins looked startled. Carefully, Eight touched her shoulder and muttered, “The cookies, Mrs Hopkins. You’d better go check on the cookies. The top oven.”

“Top oven?”

“Yes, Mrs Hopkins, the top oven.”

She nodded, and turned back inside, pulling her skirt up absently. She’d lost a lot of weight, recently.

“How is she?” Brain asked quietly, eyes fixed on Eight’s face.

No one missed the glance Eight and Three shared. “She’s getting by,” Eight said eventually, looking down at Brain with a soft smile. “We’re here to help her, she’s fine.” Almost unnoticeably, Eight reached out, fingers merely brushing the back of Brain’s hand. If Seventeen had been a year younger, he might have mimed gagging. It was still tempting. But he could feel Three looming at his shoulder, and the last time he’d mocked them, he’d been dusting the corners for a _week_...

“But anyway,” Eight said, blinking and grinning his familiar lopsided grin at them all, “I’d have thought that you’d all be rushing up to the room, to check on the parcel...”

It took a few minutes to sink in, but when it did... Seventeen’s mouth fell open. Vans swore loudly and cheerfully. Three boomed laughter. Brain unashamedly jumped up and down on the spot, hands flapping. “It’s _here_?” he squeaked, just grinning more when Eight rolled his eyes.

“Act your _age_ , man,” he tutted, setting a hand on Brain’s shoulder. “At least juniors here are still in early teens – heck, barely even a teenager yet in Seventeen’s case – you’re a _man_ in a few days, behave yourself!”

Brain laughed, shoulder knocking against Eights as his eyes shone. “Please, like ya’d love me if I suddenly turned _serious-_ ”

Seventeen’s mouth fell even further open, and he spun his head to look at Van. _Love?_ He mouthed.

Vans, the boy nearest his age (but still 14, to Seventeen’s 11) shrugged, eyes wide and bemused.

“Get your asses upstairs,” Three grunted, picking them up again and dropping them behind him, the side of the stairs.

They didn’t need telling twice.

“Parcel,” Vans said, voice in awe.

“ _Parcel_ ,” Seventeen echoed, grinning.

They stared at each other, watching the growing mirrored anticipation, before both whooping and sprinting up the creaking stairs.

There it was. Pride of place, in the centre of the playroom, untouched, the rest of their mismatched family (actually) at school. And suddenly, fun though the trip to the gallery had been, Brain spewing facts the whole time, Seventeen wished they’d been at home... for _this_.

It took them second to tear it apart, to leave the games console shining and sparkling in the middle of the floor, surrounded by debris of cardboard.

“To be honest, I hadn’t thought you’d be able to do it.”

“It wasn’t hard. Reroute the lorry. Pre-program the scanners to misread the address... other stuff you probably don’t care about. Surprised Brain hadn’t done it before...”

He trailed off, joining Vans in just... gaping with _awe_.

“It’s beautiful...”

“You going to upgrade it?”

“How _could_ I? Look at it! It’s marvellous, stunning, a wonder of gaming technology-”

“You’re going to upgrade it, aren’t you?”

A smile slipped onto Seventeen’s face, as he titled his head, contemplating the black box. He couldn’t help if his brain was already working. “Maybe the next one,” he conceded. “When that finally gets here.”

 

*Winter, 1995*

 

There was bone showing.

That was what made Seventeen throw up, in the end. There was _bone_ showing. The cut had gone so deep that the white of his femur was clear, shockingly clear against the red gushing from the wound.

It wasn’t the first wound he’d seen. He’d even helped Vans patch a few up before now.

But it was the first time he’d seen bone.

Indie was screaming into the material someone had shoved into his mouth when they carried him into the utility room, lifting him onto the table.

“I’m gonna kill them.”

Three was shaking, eyes fixed on his brother’s leg. His knuckles where chalk white, eye blank, jaw clenched. He was physically _shaking_. “I’m going to slice them until they can watch their guts spill out in front of their eyes-”

“Seventeen? _Teen!”_

His name shocked him back, hands still clenched on the edges of the sink, but he could nod.

“Seventeen, help me, we need pressure on the wound-”

It took a lot to stumble from the sink, to take the dishcloth offered by Nineteen, and to stop himself shaking enough to press it down on the gaping slice. He had to hold the sides of flesh together, could feel them slipping in the blood...

People were talking, he could hear it, Eight going around and checking on the other who’d been out there, Timmons, Nineteen, Storm had a sprained ankle but that was it –

Indie. Indiana. Somehow, one of _them_ had flicked out a knife and...

“What do we do, Vans,” Seventeen muttered, desperately trying to get a hold on the wound, watching the red sink through the material.

“I-”

“What do we _do._ ”

“I don’t _know!”_ Vans yelled finally, hands running through his hair. “I – if it’s a muscle wound – his leg, he won’t – if – the femoral artery-”

Silence.

Fucking silence, save for Indie’s _screams_.

“Timmons, you good to move?” Eight asked, voice low.

The reply wasn’t verbal. Seventeen didn’t know what it was, whether a shake or nod of the head, because the material was wet and warm under his fingers, and Indie wasn’t making as much noise anymore, wasn’t moving so much anymore.

“I’m good too, Eight,” Nineteen said.

“Take me.” Three’s voice. The fury that filled his appearance wasn’t in his voice – in that, there was just fear. “Please. Just – let me – _have_ them.”

“Happily,” Eight said without pause. “Jenks, Ten?”

“Fetching the switchblades.”

“Eight-”

“No, you can’t fight, stay here and help-”

“No, no, I know, I – be careful. Dammit, J- just cut as many of them open for me as possible, okay? _”_

No one said anything after that. There was the clink of metal, mutters, doors opening, closing...

They’d left.

For the first time, Seventeen found himself wondering how many would be coming back.

Brain came and stood next to Vans, the other side of Seventeen. “Do we have a plan?”

Vans shook his head. He’s run his hands through his hair, leaving them stiff with drying blood. “No. I can’t – I can’t do _anything_.”

Seventeen’s hands tried to shake. Breathing, breathing slow and steady, he forced them to stop, to be still. Furiously, he wiped away the water dripping from his eyes. He didn’t have _time_ to cry, he had to be the genius they all thought he was, he had to, had to _save_ him –

“That’s okay,” Brain muttered, a hand landing on Van’s shoulder. “That’s okay – if you can’t do anything, you can’t do anything.” He turned away, picking the phone up from the side.

“What’re you doing?” Vans asked.

“Calling an ambulance,” Brain muttered.

Vans seemed to choke on air with shock. Seventeen... he felt shock, numb, in his chest, but he couldn’t... he couldn’t...

“The services? They ask questions!”

“Then Indie fell on a knife whilst cutting carrots, okay?” Brain yelled back.

It was the one rule, really, that they had. You don’t call for help. We can manage. Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it. You don’t draw attention; it’ll only make things worse.

Worse?

The worst was happening.

Seventeen didn’t care who Brain called, as long as it could stop the blood from slipping away under his fingers...

*

 He hadn’t had to hold the hands of his family for a few years. You grew up fast without a mum or dad, and he’d always been called mature.

But he couldn’t let go of Eight’s hand. He knew, on the other side, Brain was holding Eight’s hand just as tightly.

Behind, he could hear the footsteps of Three and Vans, and knew that Vans would have an arm around Three’s waist, holding Three steady. They were just as silent as the front three, none of them knowing quite what to say.

He was scared to get to the end of the corridor, not knowing what he’d see.

Brain had to point the right door out to them. Looking at the floor, Eight and Seventeen would have walked straight past them.

Brain also had to open it. Eight was squeezing Seventeen’s hand tightly, quite possibly cutting off the blood circulation, but he didn’t care.

A weary “You lot took your time,” greeted them, as they forced themselves into the clinically white room.

And just like that, Seventeen could smile again.

Feeling it was his right, being the smallest and lightest (just), he launched himself forwards, throwing his arms around Indie’s chest, before Eight calmly pulled him back off.

“What, is this it?” Indie asked, eyes that were barely open looking around the group. “Just the five of you? What happened to masses around my bedside?”

“Five’s all visitors they allow,” Eight apologised.

“Ah,” Indie sighed, head falling back into the pillow, eyes fluttering shut.

There was a soft silence, as everyone realised that had no clue what to say, but didn’t quite mind – because there was still someone to say it _to_.

Eventually, Three spoke next, stepping up to the bedside of his biological younger brother, grasping his hand. “You fucker,” he grunted out.

Brain snorted. Vans grinned, leaning against Seventeen’s side. Eight, slowly, started his low, booming laugh. “And for that,” Indie sighed out, “You’re on ‘let’s lift Indie and his wheelchair up the stairs to his bedroom’ duty for the first _month_.”

“Stupid fucker, I’ll lift you up stairs however long you need me to,” Three grunted.

“Hey, don’t leave the rest of us out of the glory!” Brain protested, flexing his pretty-much nonexistent muscles. Eight chuckled, reaching around Brain from behind him and closing his hands around the arms, wrapping them around Brain’s chest – essentially pulling the other man into a hug. “No but really, we’ll all carry you anywhere you want,” Eight promised.

“Ah, you’re all horrible really, don’t try and fool me,” Indie breathed. “I’m still the sharpest here and you all know it.”

After that, talking was easy.

Seventeen let the familiar voices drift into the background, as his eyes fell on heart monitor carefully and steadily beeping by Indie’s head. He ran a finger over its side, feeling the badly fitting plastic, and frowned.

“Ah, you admiring my new gadgets there, Seventeen?”

A smile quirked into place, pulling at Seventeen’s lips. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to break out my screwdriver on it,” he promised.

Indie smiled back at that. “It’s fine,” he said softly. “Do what you want to it.”

“I’m not exactly a medic-”

“No,” Indie agreed, “but I trust you more than I trust the gooks here.”

*

Mrs Hopkins cried, when Indie finally came back from hospital. She might not remember them all, all of the time, but she still loved them all.

Watching both Eight and Three try and lift Indie, wheelchair and all, up the stairs, was a sight to see. Indie yelling ‘Mush!’ at intervals, Three’s persistent swearing and the raucous laughter from everyone else...

But it still made Seventeen’s heart burn.

Three estaters had been landed in hospital in the aftermath, and not a single other orphan had come back wounded. There was solace to be sought in that.

But hospital was temporary. It wasn’t _enough_. For Indie, Seventeen wanted something a bit more... permanent.

“Brain,” he asked, tilting his head sideways. Beside him, Brain hummed in acknowledgement. “You know what you were saying, the other day – hacking into the Yard’s system... want to give it a try?”

 

*Spring, 1996*

 

His brothers were getting good at aiming. It was really quite annoying, that he couldn’t seem to improve his avoidance skills as quickly.

That last battery Timmons had chucked would leave a bruise, Seventeen thought furiously, rubbing his collarbone and scowling mutinously.

The issue was, Indie used to be the one who made the drinks in the evening, but as... Well, the job had now fallen to the youngest, for some reason. However much he protested, however much he pointed out the logic, that as the smallest and joint weakest alongside Storm (though lacking Storm’s speed) he would be the most likely to drop the tray and cause Three more cleaning, _and_ that they always moaned about his tea-making skills anyway, so what was the point?

And yet, every night at eight on the dot, the projectiles would start to be thrown and at least five would land, no matter how fast he moved.

Muttering insults, he pushed his oversized, second-hand (like everything he owned) glasses higher up his nose, nudged the kitchen door open with a foot and made the familiar steps across to the kettle, then began the routine. Fill from tap, boil, then mugs, chocolate powder, tea bags, two different types of coffee...

There was a mug already on the side, filled with nothing but boiled water. Seventeen blinked at it twice, before looking around the kitchen.

Mrs Hopkins was leaning against the wall, brow furrowed and eyes fixed on the mug.

Seventeen’s chest started to hurt, a numb heaviness that was becoming all too familiar. “Mrs Hopkins?” he asked. When her eyes moved slowly across to him, he continued, “You forgot the teabag, miss.”

“Oh!” she breathed, nothing more than a breathe through ‘o’ shaped lips. “Yes... I knew I’d forgotten something.” Unsteady, as if she was no longer sure of her feet, she stepped forwards. At her silent footsteps, Seventeen realised she was barefoot. “Um...”

Wordlessly, Seventeen held out the jar of teabags, and she took one just as quietly.

When the kettle switched itself off, Seventeen started to mix the various hot drinks. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Mrs Hopkins watch her tea, the tendrils of the brown tea dissipating into the clear water. As if she could feel his gaze, she turned to smile at him. “My, you’ve grown,” she said cheerfully. “I remember how small you were when you got here, boy – barely at my waist. Look at you... almost at my shoulder, and at sixteen still going strong, eh?”

“I’m only thirteen, miss,” Seventeen said, quietly.

She blinked, then shook her head, shaking it clear. “Of course. Forgive me, Jeremy – there’s so many of you to keep track of.”

_I’m not Jeremy_ , he didn’t say. Instead, he stayed silent, throat tearing and eyes starting to sting. He carefully placed each full mug on the tray.

“Yes, you really have grown up,” Mrs Hopkins was still saying. “You and your brother are lucky to have stayed together, for so long. I’ve seen many brothers be split up, in the system. Yes, you’re lucky boy. You’re lucky.”

He didn’t make his excuses. He just left. Unlike Three, Eight, Timmons, he wasn’t strong enough to deal with Mrs Hopkins at her bad times.

If he was silent when he re-entered the play, no one could hear it under the sound of Vans loudly thrashing Storm at Mario Kart.

*

Jeremy had been Eight’s younger brother. Two years between them, Jeremy had been four when the two had landed on the Orphanage’s front door.

And two days later, he had been found by the police in the park, covered in bruises. He hadn’t survived his wounds.

“Don’t ever bring up his name again,” Brain whispered fiercely, fingers gripping Seventeen’s shoulders hard and eyes desperate as they stared down at him. “He’s not over it. He’ll pretend to be, but he’s not. Between us – you, all the brothers – we’ve made it better, but he’s not over it.”

“I think you’ve helped a lot,” Seventeen said, trying for a soft voice, but to his ears he just sounded tired.

Brain’s lips flickered into a smile, for a second. “Yeah, I think I have. But it makes no difference. We might be his family now, boy, but you can never replace family you’ve lost. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Seventeen muttered. “Yeah.”

*

Seventeen was halfway through a hack – setting up a monthly monetary transaction of a few thousand from Bank of England to an anonymous account, to the orphanage’s account – when he heard the bang signifying the front door being flung open. Seconds later, noise and commotion filled the building.

Curious, Seventeen locked his keyboard, pushed his glasses up his nose and rose from his armchair, heading out of the room. He met Brain and Eight coming downstairs on his way to the corridor, Eight’s arm looped around Brain’s shoulders.

“What’s going on?” Eight asked frowning, and Seventeen was about to confess ignorance when a shout went up.

“Vans! Get Vans down here now-”

“No, _stop_ , I’m fine, it’s a scratch, a scratch...”

Knowing that Eight and Brain would be doing the exact same with him, Seventeen turned and sprinted out to the front hall.

Nineteen was holding Storm up – or rather, they were propping up each other, shoulder pressed together and sweating, chests rising rapidly as they tried to draw breathe, but of the two Storm was by far the worst off. A black bruise was starting to spread across his cheekbones, and blood was dripping down his left sleeve. Timmons was talking high-speed, top of his voice, arms flying all over the place, asking all the questions and giving no pause for answer. In the doorway to the kitchen Three was berating Storm, trying to order him to let Vans tend to him.

“I’m _fine_ , it’s a scratch,” Storm was saying on repeat, turning to look at the new arrival of Seventeen, Brain and Eight, swearing, and swearing again when a final pair of footsteps sounded on the stairwell. “I’m fucking _fine!”_

“Well shut up and let me have the practise anyway,” Vans tutted, sliding sideways between Seventeen and Eight, the rucksack of his motley medical supplies on his back. Storm groaned and rolled his eyes, but it was clear he didn’t have the strength to push Vans away.

As the commotion didn’t stop with the arrival of Vans, Eight let out a low growl Seventeen had grown to interpret as the final warning before Eight’s patience ran out. “You,” Eight barked out finally, a finger stabbing out to Timmons, “You, stop talking. You, _start_ talking,” he said, finger swinging around to point, accusing, at Nineteen.

“The Estaters,” Nineteen panted out. Seventeen bit back a snort, because – well, who else would it be? “You know how one of theirs – Bandis or summin’ – landed in prison a few weeks back? Well, his appeal – today – turned down. He’s in there for ten years, ’least.”

“And the buggers think we had somethin’ to do with it,” Storm spat out through clenched teeth as Vans dabbed whiskey on the cut. Ten centimetres long, starting from shoulder and curving down.

In the stunned silence that followed Storm’s words, Seventeen felt ice freeze over his heart. He didn’t dare look across to Brain.

What were they gonna _do?_

“Fuckers,” Three muttered. “Any excuse to die, right?”

“Any excuse to fuck with one of us, more like,” Storm muttered mutinously, before yelping furiously and tugging his arm out of Vans’ hold.

Vans rolled his eyes, plaster still hovering in mid air. “Fucking hell, Storm, it’s just a _plaster-_ ”

“Yeah well, be careful where you _stick_ that thing-”

“Hey, Vans?” Brain spoke up, suddenly, causing Storm to pause mid-rant and all eyes to turn to the newly-nineteen genius. Not Seventeen, though. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Brain’s eyes. “Why don’cha you take Storm and Nineteen to the bathroom and give them a proper checkin’ over? Timmons, go with in case he needs help.” Nods, a few muttered ‘yes boss’s. “Three – go check on Indie, he’s probably wondering what the hell’s going on down here.”

Three didn’t move from the hallway as quickly as the others. Though it was easy to peg the tall, thick-set man as slow-thinking, he could often read his brothers with a frightening accuracy – and was doing so now, Seventeen could tell, from the way Three frowned at him momentarily before, with a nod, he turned and left.

The moment the three of them were alone, Eight stepped forwards into the empty space and turned to face Seventeen and Brain, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. “All right, what is it?” he asked, looking between them. “What haven’t you told me?”

Seventeen opened his mouth, only for nothing to come out.

“They’re right, Eight,” Brain cut in, eyes fixed on Eight’s face with a confused expression of regret and longing for forgiveness. “The Estaters – they’re right.”

“It was me,” Seventeen choked out, the words stuttering on his tongue. When Eight’s eyes cut across to him his heart stopped, fear cutting home. He’d never felt more like a child in his life, teenager though he now might be. “I – I had the police arrest Bandis. Left information on their databases, and – and an untraceable, anonymous email, a tip-off-” He couldn’t read Eight’s expression. For the first time in a long while, he had no idea what his older brother was thinking. “It was because of Indie!” he pleaded, trying to make it clear why, to make it obvious he hadn’t _expected_ this, the retaliation, for the Estaters to think it had been them, “Indie can’t _walk_ , and I know you cut them up a bit but that wasn’t _enough-_ ”

“So you do _this?_ ” Eight roared, and it _was_ a roar, it was fury as he stepped forwards, fists clenching and eyes burning.

Seventeen felt stupid. He felt small and stupid, and he didn’t even move to defend himself at Eight stepped closer.

But Eight didn’t land a blow. Later, Seventeen doubted he ever would have, but at the time he was so certain he was going to walk away with a black eye, until Brain stepped forwards, eyes firm and voice clear as he said, “It wasn’t his fault, or his work, Jason! You want to blame someone, blame me. The kid just the had the idea, I’m the one who implemented it. Don’t you dare take this out on the boy.”

It was clear, the anger falling from Eight’s eyes. But Seventeen wished it back, when only fear replaced it. “Dammit, Brain,” Eight muttered, rubbing his face and breathing heavily. Eventually he looked up again, only to look from Seventeen to Brain and mutter, “Well congratulations, you two. You’ve just managed to start a war.”

He left without another word, his eyes falling to the bloodstains on the welcome mat before he followed Three’s steps from the room.

 

*Winter, 1996*

 

Every inch of him was throbbing with pain and effort. His knuckles felt like they were going to cave in, chest like it would tighten and constrict him, feet like they’d crumble each time they hit the ground.

Blood slipped down over his eyes. He wiped it away impatiently.

He could hear three others panting behind him – at least he hoped it was three, he desperately hoped it was because he couldn’t stop to check, if he stopped he’d never get moving again.

They needed to get to safe ground. The trees, the house.

The moment his hand touched brick, he collapsed to the ground, chest hurting with the force and speed his heart was beating.

Vans slid down beside him seconds later. Storm was being pulled along by Three, wincing every time his left foot touched ground. Twisted ankle.

“C’mon,” Three grunted, a merciless hand pulling Seventeen up. He couldn’t stop a groan as the torn material of his jeans rubbed against his grazed knee. His glasses were slipping down, precariously balanced with only one arm of the glasses left intact. “Inside. Food and drink. Get inside.”

“But _sit_ ,” Vans moaned, but he got the same treatment as Seventeen had.

They stumbled in after Three unlocked the front door – and since when had they started to feel the need to lock it? – and promptly fell back on the floor, Seventeen letting his head fall onto Vans’ shoulder. With a weary sigh, Vans reached up and patted Seventeen’s head, muttering an apology when Seventeen swore at him for knocking his cut.

As none of them were making much noise except panting, no one came running up to them quickly, but eventually Brain found them, sprawled out as they were, and swore louder than Seventeen had. “The fuck happened to you lot?” he exclaimed.

“Flying monkeys,” Vans coughed out through his dry mouth. “What do you _think?_ ”

“Fuck,” Brain breathed again. “Are you-”

Three waved a dismissing hand, and Seventeen decided to contribute. “Just grazes, light cuts, and bruised knuckles.”

“And a twisted ankle,” Storm chimed in, sounding ironically cheery.

Brain fell silent. Seventeen opened his eyes enough to watch him rub his mouth, frowning deeply. “Bet you didn’t get the milk?” he asked.

He was answered with four disbelieving stares.

“All right, all right,” Brain muttered, “Stupid question, but – _fuck_ , has it really got that bad?”

“Let’s put it this way,” Storm said, voice still strangely cheery, as he pulled out the switchblade that had, at some point, got caught in the padding of his jacket, and stabbing it, blood and all, into the wooden floorboards. “They’re not playing kiss-chase anymore.”

*

The next milk run was a _bit_ more effective. Vans and Nineteen, trying stealth, managed to get to the grocery store.

It’s just, they didn’t realise until they were back and out of breath that all the actual milk had long departed through a hole in the base of the carton.

At the fury and general look of injustice on their faces, neither Eight, Brain, or Indie stopped laughing for a full ten minutes.

*

The third milk run ended up with Vans’ arm in a sling and Timmons with a sliced shoulder.

It’s hard to smile when you’re spending your fourteenth birthday stitching your friend’s shoulder back together, and taking forty minutes to wash his blood off your hands.

 

*Spring, 1997*

 

“Okay, now carefully – _care-_ Christ, ‘teen, do you even know what that word means?”

Seventeen bit his tongue, trying not to get distracted and bite out a comeback, but rather to focus on what his hands were doing.

“Hard to believe you’re a computer genius with – _ow fuck it all_ – such clumsy fingers-”

“My fingers aren’t clumsy,” Seventeen muttered, his nails carefully pulling out the next stitch. “You’re just fidgeting too much. My, they always say doctors make the worst patients.”

“Because us ‘doctors’ know how to do it _properly_ ,” Vans grumbled, trying to twist to see what Seventeen was doing without moving his sides at all. “And I’m not a doctor, not really.”

“Maybe not,” Seventeen mused, “but you’ve certainly got the practise.” His tongue slipped out between his lips as he peered at the final stitch. When he pulled the last thread out of his best friend’s skin, he smiled, and threw it into the bowl with the rest.

“You done? Well?”

Content to let Vans talk to himself for a few seconds longer, Seventeen traced his finger over the pink line that went from just below the lowest rib on Van’s back, to just above his hipbone. Then, his finger brushed over Vans’ skin, rising up and resting briefly above the place above Vans’ heart.

“Yup,” Vans muttered, voice low. “A few centimetres higher, and that’d have been it for me. I’d be six feet under now.”

“Don’t say that,” Seventeen said, words falling from his tongue without thought. Vans didn’t reply, and Seventeen didn’t expand. He didn’t have to.

His finger lingered on Vans’ skin, tapping an imperfect rhythm over his heart as he thought.

“Do you,” he began, before his voice failed him. “Do you... ever fear that?”

“Huh? Oh – fear what?”

“Death,” Seventeen said, the word barely more than a breath. “Not – not necessarily yours – any of ours. Do you ever worry that this will lead to death?”

When Seventeen raised his eyes, he saw Vans watching him. His expression said it all.

“I’m sure it won’t come to that,” Vans said confidently, turning away and reaching for his top. Seventeen’s hand fell from his side, landing on his own knee. “It’s just push-and-shove, right? For power? It won’t come to a death, Eight won’t let it. He and mother dearest have it sorted.”

For one bemused second, Seventeen thought he was referring to Mrs Hopkins. “Sorry?” he asked, leaning back against the wall and frowning. Vans hummed a confirmation as he pulled his top on, the whole bed shifting beneath him as he did so.

“Yeah – Brain. Dad and Mum, Eight and Brain. Don’t you see it?” Tugging the bottom of the Green Day top down, Vans turned and grinned at him over his shoulder.

Smiling back instinctively, Seventeen processed his comment – and laughed. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“So you see?” Vans said, reaching over and pushing him gently on the shoulder. “They’ll make sure nothing bad happens. It’ll be fine, trust me.” Then the grin was back, and Vans was grabbing his hand, pulling him roughly off the bed so quickly he stumbled before he could walk, and was yelling, “C’mon, let’s go show mummy and daddy our battle wounds!”

Laughing, and with the twinge in his matching newly stitch-free scar just a distant feeling – with Vans’ laughter and hand pulling him on a far more immediate feeling – it was easy to believe that hope of safety.

 

*Summer, 1997*

 

When Brain stumbled home from a trip to the shop for more batteries with a bloodied lip and a broken wrist, Eight lifted him straight off his feet, deaf to Brain’s protests that it wasn’t his ankles or legs that were hurt, and carried him straight through into the playroom, where he sat down on the couch and forced Brain to lie down with his head in Eight’s lap.

Seventeen was already playing Classic FM from his laptop. When the two of them entered, and, in a state of shock and full of questions, he made to turn it off, Eight shook his head, mouthing at him to leave the music playing.

He nodded, chest hurting and eyes fixed on Brain’s gaunt face, on the makeshift splint Vans had attached to his arm.

As he watched, and as Eight carded his fingers through Brain’s tangled brown hair, Brain slowly fell asleep.

Only when his breathing was low and steady did Eight look up and across to Seventeen, and with a completely impassive face, say, “Enough. Fuck being careful. I want those bastards in jail.”

*

Seventeen did his best, but the next day, only two of the opposing gang was in police custody.

They heard reports that one of them was in hospital, though, indefinitely. And with Three whistling cheerily away as he cleaned his switchblade in the sink, there was no doubt as to why.

That was good.

 

*Spring, 1998*

 

It is a fact of Seventeen’s life that he will _never_ sleep, as long as there is a question plaguing him.

He managed to make it to one a.m. before he gave up trying to ignore it – which was a stupid approach to try, really, considering it hadn’t worked for the past, well, week – and forced himself upright with a sigh.

He flipped his feet over the edge and slid them into his well-worn slippers, grabbed a dressing gown from the nearby chair (everything’s nearby, in his cupboard of a room) and headed into the corridor.

Not having a destination in mind, he stopped the second he pulled his door close behind him. Without thinking, his head tilted slightly to the left, towards Vans’ room.

Eventually, though, his feet led him in the other direction.

It had been a while since he accosted Eight in the middle of the night – not since he was ten or so, in fact – but he felt he won’t mind.

He opened the door slowly, muttering Eight’s name as he edged his way in, reaching across to flick on the light switch.

Under the sheets of Eight’s bed, something was... _writhing_. And moaning. And it wasn’t one thing, but two, two people, two decidedly naked people who both looked up with a start when the light was switched on, causing the sheet to slip, slowly, and fall to the floor.

Now, he’s not one hundred percent sure of this, but he’d put an awful lot of money on the fact that all three of them started screaming at the same time.

Wailing desperately he tried closing his eyes, found he could still see... _that sight_ , so rubbed his eyes, whacked out to try and flick the light back off, yelling as if he could expel what he’d just seen that way instead. In the outside world – the part of the outside world he really hadn’t needed to know exist – okay, he knew it existed, _technically_ , but he didn’t need to know it existed so _graphically_ – he heard very elaborate Scottish swearing, sheets rustling ( _gah_ ) and someone yelping as they landed with a thud on the floor.

Ingrained instinct made him open his eyes to check whoever it was, was okay.

“BAD MOVE BAD MOVE BAD MOVE!” he yelled manically, slapping a hand back over his eyes again, “Oh – ach – oh dear _lords_ how can you even be so naked, how is that even – why are – NO SHH DON’T ANSWER LALALALALA – _fuck_!” he squeaked, walking backwards so fast that the small of his back slammed into the door handle, causing his muscles to spasm in pain, before spinning, flinging the door open and stumbling back through it, grabbing at the walls blindly, eyes still immovably shut, as he sprinted back to his room.

Only when his door was safely shut behind him did he permit himself to open his eyes. With a weary, self-pitying groan, he collapsed inch by inch as he staggered to his bed, falling face forwards onto it, and carefully whacking his head into his pillow.

Brain bleach. There had to be some way. Some code to remove the relevant pathways, some virus that would delete the specific information, so he wouldn’t have to have the image of his brothers – the two people most in charge of looking after him since he was _six_ – Brain and Eight, of them, them _copulating_ , stuck in his head... _forever_.

When the door to his room slowly creaked open mere minutes later, he groaned, the words muffled through his pillow, “That had better be Vans coming to check I’m not actually dying a horribly painful death.”

“Ach... no, boy, not quite. Uh...”

He groaned loudly again. If he made enough noise, perhaps Vans _would_ come running, and rescue him. “You two are the last people I want to see right now. Save your apologies until after I’ve found a way to burn away the specific neural pathways.”

He heard Brain snort. “What, ye think we came to apologise to _you?_ We were mid flow and thoroughly enjoying ourselves before your impertinent nose decided to pop by! Where’s _our_ apology?” the small Scotsman demanded indignantly.

At that, and against all instincts to preserve his sanity, Seventeen flipped onto his back to give Brain a withering glare. He was happy to see he wasn’t the only one.

“Brain?” Eight sighed, eyes rolling from Seventeen to the ceiling and down on to Brain.

“Yus?”

“Shut up.”

Seventeen laughed unwillingly, and then instantly felt furious at himself for being amused by the people he was meant to be being annoyed at. “No, you will _not_ get me to forgive you that easily!” he insisted, lifting a finger to brandish at them carefully.

“I still think we’re the ones that need to be doin’ the forgiving,” Brain was muttering mutinously, but Eight nudged him, and he fell silent again.

“Really though, kid, we _are_ sorry for your... mental trauma,” Eight said, his face tight in a way that made him look thoroughly embarrassed and humiliated. Seventeen’s lips twitched at that, and let himself calm down a tad. “And look! We even made an effort to come and apologise, putting on clothes and everything!”

Not quite. “You’re wearing your boxers and Brain’s wearing his tatty old dressing gown,” Seventeen pointed out logically.

“Don’ you say nothing about my dressing gown, boy,” Brain said, but there was a grin in his tone this time, and his eyes were shining. “Just take what you’ve got – unless you’d rather we were nude again?”

“Fuck no,” Seventeen said, aghast.

Brain smirked. “That’s what we thought.”

There was a moment of mutual glaring, of mutual stifling of smiles, before Eight cracked and grinned, stepping forwards to sit down at the end of the bed. “Why were you coming to my room in the first place?” he asked, wriggling to try and find a comfortable place to perch amidst the lumps and dips that made up Seventeen’s familiar and well-worn mattress. “A bit late for a social call, really.”

And every single one of Seventeen’s questions and concerns came crashing back down. It must have shown in his face, or perhaps his shoulders slumped, because Brain was frowning and asking, “There’s nothing wrong, is there?”

“No,” Seventeen said hastily, “I just – I wanted – was wondering, even – no – _argh_ ,” he muttered, burying his face in his hands once more. “God, it sounds stupid now.”

“Eh, most things do, when you try and word them,” Brain agreed, relaxing and leaning against the doorframe, slipping his hands into the pockets of the dressing gown. “I tend to ignore that feeling and say it anyway.”

With a snort, Eight shrugged and added, “Yeah, can’t be much worse than what Brain says.” And Seventeen was spectator to another gross cute couple moment when Brain stuck his tongue out, and Eight just smiled back – causing Brain to slip into a soft smile in return.

“You two are disgusting,” Seventeen told them frankly. They didn’t reply. Instead, they turned dreadfully patient, parental and understanding gazes to him. Bravely, he resisted curling up into a ball under his duvet and blurted out - “How did you know you were...” before confidence failed and he trailed off. Desperately, he flapped hands at them.

Brain cocked an eyebrow, looked down at himself, and tried, “Guessing you’re not asking how I know I’m wearing a dressing gown? How I knew I was Scottish? Well, the affinity for Irn Bru was my first clue...”

He kept talking for a bit longer, but Seventeen looked hopelessly to Eight, who thankfully didn’t look as confused. Instead, he was nodding, and smiling. “He means how did we know we were gay, Brain,” he said softly.

Seventeen’s cheeks felt like they were about to spontaneously combust. He nodded jerkily, his muscles refusing to cooperate, still desperate to throw him under the duvet never to be seen again.

The expression on Brain’s face made it even harder to stay still, to not run away now, as his face split into a grin and he opened his mouth to clearly make some kind of joke – but then Eight raised a finger threateningly, and Brain closed his mouth slowly. “To be honest,” Brain said, speaking seriously for the first time that night, “I didn’t know until that great lumberjack slammed his lips against mine. Had always been tits for me before that, but then I found myself thinking, ‘hm, this ain’t too bad’, et voila! I discovered something new about my sexuality.”

When Brain had finished speaking, Eight turned to look back at Seventeen, head tilted and eyebrows raised in an expression of mutual exasperation. It was the campest Seventeen had ever seen him, and it made Seventeen snort in amusement. “Right bundle of help he is, I’m sure,” Eight drawled. Brain darted forwards and slapped the back of Eight’s head, who muttered an ‘ow’ distractedly before twisting and grabbing the arm of the giggling Brain and tugging him down haphazardly onto his lap, holding him in place without actually giving him any attention as he continued, “A bit different for me. Never looked at a girl, never really seen the attraction, which was the first clue. And I mean, I admired guys off’f the TV and big screen for their arms, and their bright smiles and nice eyes, which really should have been another clue... but wasn’t really until I realised how infatuated with a certain Scottish rascal about five years ago that I finally pulled my head out... well, was going to say ‘out of my ass’ but that might be an unfortunate turn of phrase...” He pretended to frown at himself, and Brain giggled again, poking at Eight’s bare chest fiercely with the tip of his finger. “Behave, man!”

Seventeen smiled, finally, and shook his head. “Teapot, kettle,” he chimed at Brain.

“ _Precisely_ ,” Eight agreed, grabbing Brain’s hand and twisting it so his was poking himself. “But really, ‘teen, whether you think you’re gay or not, it doesn’t really matter. Experiment, find out, decide when you can. You’ll know when you know.”

“And not that it needs saying,” Brain said, his serious tone countered slightly by how he was looking at Seventeen upside down, head hanging off Eight’s lap, “But whatever ya choose, you’ve got full support from us, boy. And everyone else in this god forsaken house, for that matter. Might be nice, actually, having someone bring back a nice boy or two, rather than Timmon’s endless stream of girls...”

Eight whacked Brain around the head again.

Seventeen watched the semi-violent exchanges with a smile. “Thanks,” he said.

He got two smiles in return, and a mock salute from Brain. “C’mon, then,” Eight huffed out as he lifted Brain into his arms bridal style, ignoring the squeak of protest Brain made. “We’ll leave you to your bed – and for crying out loud, kid, _knock_ in the future, ‘kay?”

“I promise!” Seventeen swore quite willingly. He waved dozily as Eight muttered insults when Brain shifted in his grasp, as Brain squeaked again when his head got too close to the doorframe, his lips twitching each time the bickering started up again. Brain sent a flying kick out, managing to push the door shut by pure luck alone, and, alone in his room, Seventeen lay back down.

_You’ll know when you’ll know?_ But how do you _know_? Is it arousal? Is it seeking out a guy’s smile because it makes you feel better? Is it leaning closer to someone, physically closer, because somehow their warmth is better than anyone else’s? Is it getting turned on by the idea of hands, fingers pressing down in the crack between your butt cheeks, some other guy’s dick pressed against your hole? Is it wanting to curl up on the sofa in the arms of someone bigger, stronger than you? At what point do you _know_?

The walls in the orphanage had always been thin, you’d always been able to hear laughter three rooms away, yelling from even further. And if you’re near the wall, you can hear almost everything going on in the next room. Every morning, Seventeen would wake to the sound of Vans, who had the neighbouring room, swearing and slamming a hand onto his alarm twice as hard as he actually had to. He had no doubt that Vans would always hear him, late at night, muttering lists of numbers to himself as he tried to crack into new computers. Two nights ago, Seventeen had heard the unmistakable soft grunts and moans as Vans masturbated.

In a house of nine boys, from fifteen to 24 years of age, it wasn’t something secret, something unmentioned. Seventeen obviously knew that the others, that Vans tugged himself off occasionally.

But actually hearing it – hearing each _sound_ Vans had made, hearing his fucking _gasp_ as he came – had made Seventeen harder than he’d ever been in his young life.

The fade from loving him as family, to loving him as something more had happened so slowly, so gradually that he hadn’t noticed it – hadn’t _wanted_ to notice it, until his body had made it pretty fucking clear.

_You’ll know when you know._

A litany of curses poured from Seventeen’s mouth, not even bothering to try and bury them into the pillow. Fuck this. Fuck all of this.

He jumped as three loud bangs suddenly shook his wall. On the other side of the thin divide, Vans was slamming his fist against the crumbling paintwork, a sign that quite simply translated as _go the fuck to sleep._

The first tear slipped down his face as a smile fell into place. He rolled onto his side, a hand fitting beneath his head. Yeah, he guessed he knew.

Nothing in his life was ever fucking simple, was it?

 

*Autumn, 1998*

 

It was one of those rare occasions in a London late autumn where the sun was actually out, and the temperature wasn’t below 15 degrees. Vans hadn’t even had to say anything to Seventeen that morning before they’d both grabbed money, phone, switchblades and house keys and made their way to the front door, heading out to the nearby part of the clearing by the orphanage that was shaded by trees. Vans pointed out all the conkers on the floor, effectively instigating a competition of who could collect the most. Soon, it slipped into a game of stealing from each other’s piles without getting caught, which in turn ended with Vans letting out a war-cry and chucking himself on Seventeen as he caught him pinching the last three conkers in Vans’ pile, sending them both laughing and rolling painfully over spiked scattered conker shells.

Storm and Timmons showed up later, carrying a whole crate and singing happy birthday off-tune and at the top of their lungs. It was Vans’ eighteenth, the start of an annoying three months where Seventeen was the youngest by three years, not two. And every year since joining the orphanage, not a day would go by in those three months where Vans without Vans reminding him of it.

“Eighteen at last!” Vans crowed, falling onto his back and raising one of the cans of beer that Timmons had brought with him. “Only one kid in the pack now!”

Seventeen groaned, falling forwards head whacking against his crossed knees, hands slamming onto the ground. “Yes, thank you, I’d forgotten for a second.”

“I guess you can’t have a beer, kiddo,” Storm sighed, holding up the fourth can and pouting at it before moving to pack it away. “That’d be _terribly_ irresponsible of us, and all that shit.” With a yelp, Seventeen pushed himself to his feet, diving onto Storm with full intent to wrestle it from him.

“You cocksucking bastard, I’ve been drinking as long as you have and you _know it_ – HEY!” he yelled, trying hard not to laugh as Storm cackled and with his one free hand, threw the can over to Timmons, who threw it to Vans, who, with a grin, snapped it open and proceeded to chug it down without a break.

With a huff of annoyance, and a grin immovably in place, Seventeen collapsed back against the hard ground, mock weeping as he watching his beer be drunk with a total lack of remorse. “You’re all bastards,” he moaned, head falling back and hands pressing against his eyes. “I hate you all.”

“Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that,” Storm said as Timmons sounded like he was laughing his arse off, quite happily.

“Pillocks, each and every one of you.”

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Vans said, and Seventeen heard grass and material rustle as the birthday boy settled down next to him. “Here,” Vans added, pulling one of Seventeen’s hands from his faces and wrapping it around a cold can. “For your impressive victory earlier.”

Seventeen opened one eye, peering out – to see his hand wrapped around what had originally been Vans’ own can, still pretty much full. Meeting Vans’ gaze, seeing his grin, he wanted to do something utterly preposterous like kiss him, but instead he just grinned back and said, “Thanks.” He sipped it as he shuffled upright, leaning back on a hand, eyes closing to the sunlight as he tipped the first of the beer down his throat.

Storm and Timmons had brought lunch, too, crisps and cold pizza from the previous night, sausage rolls and a packet of ham – they’d forgotten the bread – a 2L bottle of coca cola, Bacardi, cheese puffs and a bag of donuts. The two genii had also forgotten the blanket and plates and cutlery, but that was fine. They just chucked the packets between each other (causing Storm to end up with ham covering his face when the packet split whilst flying at him, and consequently everyone else unable to breathe from laugh for a good few minutes) and lounged on the grass beneath the trees, occasionally finding and chucking conkers at each other. They grinned and cheered when Timmons shared that Eight was making a roast and cream tarts for dinner, for Vans’ birthday, groaned when Timmons added Brain had also offered help with the cooking. Vans lazily started throwing his knife at a tree, the blade imbedding itself in the bark each time, and slowly the others started to copy, and eventually challenge each other.

Seventeen just watched and laughed, his own knife in his pocket. He wasn’t as good with a blade as they all were, was quite happy to watch them humiliate themselves, and not join in. He closed his eyes and lay back, hands behind his head, smile firmly in place. He listened to the taunting and bickering, the woops and curses and snide comments, chuckling at them occasionally.

It was nice, to have a day like this, between all the near-death moments, the running and the fighting and slicing, the punching, and the fear. Yeah... it was nice, a day like this.

Someone – and Seventeen would put hard cash on it being Timmons – wolf-whistled. “ _Wow!_ Wouldn’t mind cutting myself a slice of _that_! Mm-mm!”

“ _Damn_ but that’s one fine ass,” Storm agreed.

“Hey, babe!” Timmons called out, and even with eyes closed, Seventeen could hear the leer and wink in Timmons’ voice. “Want a bed for the night?”

“Don’t be a dick, Timmons,” Seventeen muttered through a small smile.

From somewhere, Vans snorted. Timmons scoffed. “Look at her, man! How can I resist? And hey, it’s only a friendly offer!”

Amused, Seventeen cracked an eye open and pushed himself upright, eyes flickering over the other three and following Timmons’ gaze to where, across the green, a girl was leaning against a lamp post, in a vest with something that barely passed as a ‘neck’ line and a skirt that barely more than a belt. Her hair was ruffled, and lips were bright red with lipstick. It was easy to see why someone like Timmons could see the appeal. “I dunno, man,” Seventeen sighed, pushing himself all the way into a sitting position. “Not exactly my type, is she? Guess I can’t judge.”

“You given up on skirt chasing already, ‘teen?” Storm asked, turning to the youngest with a raised eyebrow.

Seventeen tried to shrug casually. “Something like that.”

His gut was swirling and clenching as he forced himself to meet their eyes – well, Storm’s and Vans’, what with Timmons’ gaze being fixed on the chick. But there was nothing of note. Perhaps some amusement in Storm’s, but nothing to fear.

“Sure, whatever, but Storm, man, Vans – c’mon guys, back me up here that _that_ is one _hot piece of ass!”_ Timmons moaned, now sagging against a tree with what Seventeen supposed was meant to be desperate and heart-wrenching longing.

To Seventeen’s surprise, Vans also shrugged, also said, “Alright, I guess.”

“You’re _joking me!”_

They were all laughing at Timmons’ suffering, Storm the most as he collapsed against his brother, pulling him away from his bordering-on-stalking gazing and back towards the food. “Looks like you’re on your own!”

“Just cos you’re all short-sighted poofs doesn’t mean I’m wrong...”

“Hey, don’t you say a word against poofs, I’ve happened to know a few good poofs in my time,” Storm protested, winking at Seventeen. “Short-sighted, though – whew, those buggers, can’t trust them bastards, horrible, stinking things-”

“I’m sure I love you too, Storm,” Seventeen drawled, pulling his glasses off his nose and rubbing them clean with the edge of his shirt. Storm just laughed back.

“Oi, Vans – think you’ve got a birthday present,” Timmons cut in, glee inherent in his voice.

Vans let out a weary sigh, collapsing to the ground to Seventeen’s left, like he had before. Seventeen had to consciously stop himself leaning towards him. “For the last time, Timmons, not my type-”

But he was shushed down, Timmons flapping a hand at him without looking away from, presumably, his girl. “No, no, not _her_ ,” he said, sounding almost offended that they thought he was still fixated on her, much to Seventeen’s amusement. “Nah, I mean _them_.”

Curiosity peaked, Seventeen leant forwards, around Timmons’ almost-bulk, trying to see what he could. Storm clearly saw it before him, letting out a short, sharp laugh. Then Vans started to chuckle, followed by the metallic click of the switchblade opening and closing repeatedly. When Seventeen finally saw what the fuss was about, he smirked slightly too. “They look a bit green to be around here,” he mused, head tilting as he took in the two guys sat on a crumbling, graffiti covered bench, passing what looked to be a fag back and forth. “They’re wearing the band of the estaters, though,” he pointed out, eyes narrowing on the blue strip of cloth tied around each of their wrists.

“Newly moved here, my guess,” Timmons suggested with a grin. He turned back around to look at the three of them, eyes flashing, teeth bared and cracking his knuckles. “Anyone else up for going and saying hi?”

“It’s only fair to give them a proper introduction,” Vans agreed seriously, nodding.

“Make men of the mice and all that jazz,” Storm added, raising a finger as he contributed his point.

They were waiting for him to speak now, Seventeen knew, even though nothing he said would make a difference. Four of them, and only two estaters? Easy pickings, something they might have ignored once, not so much now.

“Aw, stop wasting time with thinking, like some great philosopher,” Vans groaned, leaning across to shove Seventeen. “It’s this simple – it’s my birthday, so you’ve got to. How’s that?”

“Sounds good to me!” Timmons chimed in. Storm called out a cheery ‘hear, hear’ from where he was.

Seventeen pursed his lips for a few seconds, watching Vans push himself to his feet, one eyebrow raised sceptically, before grinning and going, “That logic sounds about right to me.”

“We’ll have a good laugh at them, if nothing else!” Storm crowed, doing a stupid little Artful Dodger jump, clicking his ankles together in the air. Timmons laughed and shoved him, calling him a poof again, before starting to stride out towards the two kids on the bench.

Getting to his feet, Seventeen said a wry, “Happy birthday,” to Vans, making him laugh, before they jogged to catch up with the older two.

They were still several meters away when the kids with the blue wristbands realised they were there. Seventeen watched their eyes widen, hands freeze as they took in the four of them – recognized them? What did it matter, they knew what this meant either way. His blood started to pump through his chest, lungs clenching with anticipation, lips twitching back and forth between a smile and a smirk.

“Well hello there boys!” Storm called out, shit-eating smirk across his face as he swaggered forwards, speaking in a ridiculously false King’s English accent. “So, Newton’s third law – that’s some shit, eh?”

The kids looked blankly back at him. One of them – the braver one, perhaps, said, “What?”

Storm winced dramatically, coming to a stop and looking across at the other three. “Oh dear,” he lamented, “Education these days.”

“ _Weeell_ ,” Vans mused, a finger coming to rest on his chin and looking at Storm in a very scholarly way, “Perhaps it’s not the education system to blame, it _could_ just be the students.”

That seemed to get the boys’ attention. “Hey, you calling us thick?” one of them demanded.

Timmons crowed. “And lo! There was cognitive processing!” As the boys didn’t reply, just sat there fuming, Timmons sighed, leant forwards and explained, “That means ‘yes’,” in the most patronizing voice Seventeen had ever heard him use. He raised a hand to cover his mouth in a fruitless attempt to snort behind it discretely.

When the younger of the two boys – a year younger than Seventeen himself, perhaps – turned to look at him, Seventeen returned his gaze impassively, one eyebrow raised. “I know you,” the kid said bluntly.

Seventeen just raised the eyebrow higher. “Wouldya look at that!” Storm cried, faking emotion and a poor Scottish accent. “Ma wee boy’s growin’ up!”

But the boy wasn’t paying attention to him, didn’t even scowl like the other did. His eyes were fixed on Seventeen’s. “You’re the geek,” he continued. “The one with computers. You’re the one who sets the police on us.”

He hadn’t even looked familiar before, but Seventeen could place him now. Not new to the area – a younger brother of one of the usual tough guys, one Seventeen had managed to get locked up for five years by pressing a few buttons out of boredom. “Ah, is my work getting recognised now?” he asked, trying to sound amused. He thought it worked. “It’s always nice to receive appreciation.”

“Everyone knows you’re a genius now, ‘teen,” Vans teased, his elbow nudging against Seventeen’s ribs. And for a second Seventeen could just enjoy his grin and shove back.

That second was short lived, before the boy flicked open a blade and threw himself off the bench and at Seventeen.

He didn’t even see it. Didn’t see him the blade in the air, just felt pressure against his chest as Vans’ hand slammed against him, shoving him backwards and stepping into his place.

He couldn’t breathe.

Stumbling back, arms flying out as he tried to stay standing his eyes were fixed on Vans as he grabbed the kid’s arm, pushing it up and trying, fighting so hard to wrench the blade from the kid’s hand. Seventeen could see the kid’s mouth open, see his eyes scrunch up as he yelled but he couldn’t hear anything. His chest hurt, his throat, his head, all he could hear was ringing, everything he could see was blurred, not quite sharp at the edges, like it wasn’t real. _Don’t let this be real._

The knife finally went flying, skidding across the concrete to stop somewhere beneath the bench but so did Vans, crashing to the ground when the kid brought his knee up into his stomach. Seventeen could hear Vans’ cry. Vans’ pain as he collapsed, retching, his blood smearing on the concrete as his palms cut on the ragged surface.

So focused on that he didn’t realise the kid was back on him again until a fist collided with his cheekbone. As if the world wasn’t blurry enough. A foot came swinging up to get him but Three had taught him this, he knew this, and his hand closed around the ankle on reflex, lifting the leg up higher and using it to push the kid back, teeth clenched and eyes watering as he yelled, trying to get the kid on the _ground_.

And then the kid was collapsing, his other leg pulled out from under him by Vans, and he landed on the concrete with a crunch, and yell, and without a thought, with only a furious shout Seventeen slammed his foot into the boy’s stomach, fury that this kid had brought a knife, fury that he’d dared to attack Vans, that his friends had broken Brains’ wrist, sliced open Storm’s arm, beaten Nineteen to a pulp, _put Indie in a fucking wheelchair_ –

Six kicks in and something slammed into his back, pushing the air from him and making him stumble over the kid, almost landing on Vans who caught him as he fell. “Come on!” he heard the second kid – he’d forgotten about the second kid – he heard the second kid yell as he pulled the other from the floor, “We gotta get out of here-”

“What did you do,” the other was gasping as he was pulled off the floor, as their thuds shook the floor as they ran, “What did you _do-”_

And then Timmons screamed.

_Men don’t scream_ , Timmons had said indignantly the other day, as Indie fell out of his wheelchair laughing at the strangled-cat scream Timmons had made, stubbing his toe. _Men yell with manly pain, they don’t scream._

And then Timmons screamed.

Seventeen let himself bury his face in Vans’ shirt for one second longer, let himself be safe in Vans’ arms for one short second more, before getting up, before being unable to breathe, before turning around.

Timmons wasn’t hurt. Wasn’t bleeding, but for a split lip, and yet his hands were drenched with blood where they pressed against Storm’s chest.

The ground rushed up to meet Seventeen, his knees slamming and cracking against the red stained concrete.

There was a knife sticking out of Storm’s chest. It was buried in between his ribs, right up to its hilt. Blood was pulsing, around the hilt, pouring onto the ground and over Timmons’ hands as he screamed at Storm to open his eyes, to open his _goddamn eyes!_

But he wasn’t.

He was shaking, fingers shaking against the ground and against Vans’ hands when Vans fell to the ground next to him and took his hands, took his pulse, and froze at the sight of the blade stuck in Storm’s chest.

Say something, Seventeen willed, prayed, begged, demanded. _Say something!_ That’s what Storm does, right? Says something funny, makes it a joke? So _make this a joke!_ Something funny would come out of Storm’s mouth and it’d be okay, it’d be hilarious and they’d laugh and go home and eat Eight’s roast.

But the only thing that came out of Storm’s mouth was blood, coughed up as he tried to breathe.

Timmons had gone from screaming to sobbing to silence, when the shaking stopped.

Vans shook Storm’s hand, trying to get him to move. Shook him. Storm’s head rolled to the side. So Vans leant forwards, curled up over their brother’s corpse, and screamed. And yelled and screamed and punched him, punched himself.

Staggering forwards, Seventeen said nothing, just crouched behind Vans and reached for his wrist, holding his arms still across his chest until he’s stopped moving, until he’d stopped thrashing was sobbing. Then Seventeen leant forwards, pressed his eyes against Vans’ shoulder and sobbed, too.

*

Timmons carried him home, cradling him against his chest. His face was shining with tears that never seemed to stop.

Seventeen unlocked the door when they got home. Vans was still shaking too hard, hadn’t opened his eyes, letting Seventeen lead him. But Seventeen felt... empty. What was there left, to feel anything about?

So with steady hands he opened the door. No one was in the hallway, no one had expected them back for another few hours.

Seventeen led Vans inside, unable to say they were home.

What did it _matter_.

They took the body that had once been Storm into the utility room, where they always took the wounded. They didn’t know what else to do with him.

There’d be a funeral, Seventeen realised, the thought striking him like a blade between his own ribs. A tombstone, with Storm’s name on it.

He started to shake, and Vans’ arms tightened around him.

Timmons stood in the doorway, looking lost. He looked down at Storm, face set in confusion, then at the table, then at Seventeen. “Do – do I have to set him down now?” he asked, sounding like a child talking of his favourite toy.

Tired, scared, and so, so weary, Seventeen nodded. Vans moaned, mouth pressed against Seventeen’s shoulder.

“I don’t want to,” Timmons confessed, looking back down at the cold white body he was holding against his chest. “I don’t want to...”

Seventeen couldn’t tell him he’d have to, that some point soon that body would be six feet under their feet. He couldn’t.

So when Nineteen entered the utility room, sometime later, that was what he saw: Timmons cradling Storm in his arms.

As Seventeen watched he could see Nineteen’s thinking, each thought passing across his face. Amusement, perhaps a joke about babying Storm. Concern came next, at the red staining Timmons’ shirt. It was only after he stepped forwards that he saw the hilt of the blade, and finally understood.

He screamed, too. He choked, sobbed, grabbed at Storm’s arm and screamed.

Brain and Eight arrived together. Brain saw instantly, moaning and trying to turn from the room, but Eight held him by his wrists as Seventeen had held Vans, pulling him into his arms and holding him there, his own face clenched shut, as he buried Brain against his chest and tried to hide himself in that comfort.

Three came last. He didn’t say a word. He’d sworn, when Indie had lost his legs. He’d sworn and yelled and roared and threatened to kill each estate with his bare hands.

But now, he didn’t say a word. He stood there, in silence, with the rest of them.

And that moment seemed to last forever.

*

Being the youngest meant that Seventeen had never had to carry anyone anywhere. He’d always had his brothers looking after him.

But he carried Vans, that night. He carried him up the stairs, up to his room, as he shook and sobbed and refused to open his eyes. He let Vans stay still as he took off Vans’ shirt, his shoes, his socks, let Vans stay in the middle of the room as he pulled back the duvet. “C’mon,” he muttered, taking Vans by his hands and leading him to the bed, gently pushing him to sit down.

When Vans tugged at him, tightened his grip of Seventeen’s hands, Seventeen obediently settled down beside him. As Vans shook, his eyes still shut, Seventeen held his hands and waited. Carefully, he closed his own eyes, let his head rest on Vans’ shoulder, the warmth and familiar texture of the fabric a small, very small comfort.

“What time is it?” Vans asked. His voice sounded as wrecked as the rest of him felt.

“About half four,” Seventeen answered quietly, moving his hands slightly and letting his thumb brush over the back of Vans’ hand.

“G-” Vans tried, but his voice broke before he could say anymore. He gasped, breathed, and choked out, “God. _God_. Oh my god...”

Each syllable was a twist in Seventeen’s gut, a fresh reminder.

“We shouldn’t have-” Vans stopped again, hands starting to shake once more, no matter how hard Seventeen tried to hold him still. “I shouldn’t – if I hadn’t – if I hadn’t pressed you-”

“If I hadn’t agreed, if it hadn’t been your birthday, if I hadn’t put his brother in jail, if Timmons hadn’t seen them – there’s too many variables, Vans,” Seventeen muttered, rolling his head so each word he said, was said against Vans’ shoulder. “You can’t do that. You can’t do that to yourself.”

Sobs started to tear from Vans again, and Seventeen raised his head, wrapped his arms around Vans, let him falling against Seventeen again and held him, there, held him still. “It’s not your fault,” he muttered, raising one hand absently brushing away a tear of his own. “It’s not your fault. It’s not my fault, it’s not Timmons’ fault, it’s not – it’s not your fault, okay?”

But the sobs just grew and got worse, and slowly Seventeen fell into them too. They held each other as they wept for Storm, the body the ambulance had collected, their brother. It was too soon before their skins were soaked with their tears.

“I – I’m scared, ‘teen,” Vans cried, choking on the words, his lips shaping them where they were pressed into the crook of Seventeen’s collarbone. “I’m scared, I’m scared I’m going to lose – I’m going to lose _everything_ , all of them, Storm and Timmons and Nineteen and Three and Eight and Bones and Indie, and, and I’m scared I’m going to lose you because _I can’t_ , ‘teen, I’m not strong, I’m not, I can’t – I wouldn’t – scared, so – so fucking scared, ‘teen-”

“You won’t,” Seventeen promised, hoping it was true. His fingers slid through Vans’ blonde hair, holding his head in place, the other immovable around Vans’ waist. “You won’t lose me, you won’t, you won’t...” he pulled back, holding Vans’ head and forcing him to look at him. “Open your eyes, Vans,” he ordered, shaking the boy’s head lightly, “Open them! I’m here, it’s okay, I’m still here. Look at me, _please_...”

Vans’ eyes flickered open, and there was a moment of relief in them as they locked on Seventeen’s, before they flickered shut against the tears. He blinked, looked, cried. His hands clenched knots in Seventeen’s top. “Don’t go,” he sobbed, “Don’t – don’t go,”

Wordlessly, Seventeen nodded, hands sliding from Vans’ face to his sides. Slowly, carefully, he shifted the two of them until they were lying down, side by side on the bed, his arms still wrapped around Vans’ waist. “Thank you,” he muttered, curled up around Vans, breathing him in, feeling his heartbeat under his arms. “Thank you... I’ll stay. Let me stay.”

“Don’t you fucking dare go,” Vans choked out.

“I’m not gonna go. I’m not gonna go.”

Vans nodded jerkily, head turning towards Seventeen, seeking. Obediently, willingly, Seventeen pressed their lips together, savouring the taste, the warmth, the tenderness, before they separated.

He didn’t move, as Vans sobbed, as he cried himself. He didn’t let go of Vans until he fell asleep, ragged and torn breathing smoothing out long after the sun had set.

He pressed his lips against Vans’ forehead, before utterly silently sliding from the bed and leaving Vans’ room.

*

There was only four other people in the playroom when Seventeen entered. Eight and Brain were in their places on the sofa, Brain lying with his head in Eight’s lap, Eight’s eyes unfocused as his fingers brushed through Brain’s hair.

The other two were Indie and Three. Indie was in an armchair, legs hanging limply over the edge but his body twisted curled to the side so his hand could reach over and hold Three’s, who was sat on the floor, leaning against the armchair, staring blankly ahead, just like Eight.

At the sound of the door swinging gently shut behind him, Indie raised his head. His eyes were red, mouth twisted and open, a permanent state of disbelief. Three had told him, earlier. They’d all heard him yelling, denying it, demanding to be taken to see Storm. Seventeen didn’t know if he’d got his request – he’d taken Vans away long before then. As he walked past him and his brother, Seventeen let his hand rest on theirs, where they were interlocked on the armrest, before letting go and heading to his chair.

“How’s Vans?” Eight asked quietly, not looking anywhere but at the floor.

“Asleep,” Seventeen answer simply, curling up in his chair, eyes fixed open as his head fell back against the back. “He’s asleep.”

There wasn’t a clock, in the playroom. The last one had broken when Nineteen had thrown his keys, missed Timmons and hit the clock instead, and it had yet to be replaced. So when there’s no TV playing, no games console or radio on, no one tapping at a computer keyboard and no one talking, the room is utterly silent. There’s no ticking to pass the time. It’s like a grave. One moment in time, lasting forever, no one moving, no one saying a word.

It was better, that companionable silence, than lying next to a still Vans, each moment between his breaths filled with the fear of him lying as silent as Storm. It was far, far better of lying alone, in a cupboard sized room, not know who else would be in the house when you woke up. It was better to see others, see them alive, see them mourn with you.

When Indie started to snore, softly, Three pushed himself to his feet and carefully lifted his brother out of the chair, cradling the nineteen year old in his arms and carrying him from the room to his bedroom two floors up.

Seventeen didn’t watch them go. He felt them go, felt the air move and the slight breeze, listened until he couldn’t hear Three’s footsteps anymore.

But his eyes were glued to the ceiling, his mind trying to remember where above him Storm’s bedroom was.

“I want to tie you here,” Eight said suddenly. Seventeen looked down for a second, Brain rolled his head to look up at his love. “I want to lock you in this room, to these chairs and cushions and never let you leave again. Both of you,” Eight said, looking across to meet Seventeen’s eyes, too. “I would do anything to stop you getting hurt, if I could. You two – you’re the most important people to me that I... since...”

Eight had fallen in love with Brain at the age of fifteen, the age Seventeen was now, Seventeen knew. They’d been together since then. And Eight had seen his deceased younger brother in Seventeen when he’d arrived at the orphanage eight years ago, he knew that too, that Eight had started to look after him because of it, until he’d become paternal for Seventeen in Seventeen’s own right. Seventeen had never had a father, didn’t have a clue or any way to find out who his father might be, but if he had one, he felt that it would be someone like Eight.

“We can look after ourselves, Jason,” Brain muttered, eyes closing again and a hand reaching out to take Eight’s.

“So could Storm,” Eight said sharply, before sighing out and letting his head fall against his chest. “I’m sorry. I’m not going to go all prison guard on you, I just need you to be safe.”

“I’ll stay safe,” Seventeen said, his voice shaking. Other boys his age worried about if their mothers would let them go play football in the park at the weekends. He’d lost his brother to gang violence. “I promise, I’ll stay safe. I will, I really will.” He’d thought for a moment, when his chest had hurt, that the knife had landed on him, not that Vans was pushing him out of the way. But the knife had been knocked to the side, then picked up, and had then landed on Storm instead.

Eight nodded, breathing deeply and hand tightening visibly on Brain’s. “I’m going to get you out of here,” he murmured, head tilting slightly as his fingers brushed down the side of Brain’s face, tracing over his cheekbones, his jaw line, the faint stubble just about visible. “I’m going to buy a flat, on the other side of London. I’m going to move as many of us in as possible, and then I’m going to save up and buy another flat, and another, until we’re all happy and all have homes and decent size bedrooms, until I have a big kitchen and we can afford to send Mrs Hopkins to a decent hospice.”

“You don’t have to save up,” Brain told him softly, leaning in to his touch. “I can get you the money, we can transfer it-”

“No,” Eight cut in, shaking his head, “I can get it, I can earn it, I’ve got that job at the baker’s. I can work more shifts, I can get the money, it’s fine.” He raised their joined hands to his lips, not kissing them, just resting his lips against Brain’s skin. “I’m going to build you a home,” he promised. “I’m going to build us a home.”

Brain’s eyes stayed shut as he smiled. Slowly, but certainly, Seventeen pushed himself up off his armchair and walked across to the sofa. Eight lifted his arm up so Seventeen could slip himself in, against his side, resting his head on his Eight’s shoulder. He fell asleep there.

He woke up a bit before dawn, untangled himself from Eight’s arm and Brain’s hands, and tugged his shirt back into shape as he checked on Vans, climbing as quietly as he could back onto the bed, and against Vans’ side.

*

Seventeen never left the orphanage for much, after that. He’d never been the best of fighters, anyway, always better with a keyboard in his hands than a blade, despite Three’s training. He and Brain would spend most of their time in their rooms, or the playroom, at home with Indie and typing furiously, or curiously, depending on what they were doing. Sometimes Seventeen would find something new, and show Brain, but usually it was Brain with the breakthroughs, with the perfect, untouchable breaches of banks, computers, laptops and mobiles and tapping phones, anything that would benefit them or harm the estaters.

They’d searched, both of them, for a way to break into the CCTV network to try desperately to get a clean photo, some certain evidence to get the boy who’d murdered Storm locked up for good. It didn’t happen. All they managed to do was find a video that some stupid fool had made on his phone, of some skinhead taunting and beating up a girl who had happened to be passing through.

With a smile, Seventeen made that video the standby screen for the computers at the local police station.

It took a while to arrange Storm’s funeral. Brain and Indie had spent the day searching through the nameless, unorganised piles of paperwork in Mrs Hopkins’ study for his birth certificate.

Dan Fereday, twenty one.

Seventeen, communicating with the funeral home via emails, picked out the coffin, the headstone.

When picking the engraving, he sat, staring at the email until Vans, Timmons, Three and Nineteen finally returned home and approved it. Brain approved it for himself and Eight. Indie had helped him write it. He sent the email, clicking the enter button with shaking hands.

_A loving brother, a brave man, a constant reason to smile_

_Ave atque vale_

It didn’t rain, at the funeral. Seventeen spent most of the time staring at the sky, furious at it for not weeping with the rest of them.

They shared drinks in the park, after, whiskey and beer and vodka and gin and rum, anything they could find in the shops, drinking from the bottle, until none of them could see straight.

He kissed Vans for the second time, that night. A desperate and needy clash of lips and teeth outside their rooms before they fell apart when Brain and Eight came up the stairs, Brain muttering words of comfort as he all but carried the near-unconscious man to their room.

 

*Summer, 1999*

 

Hyper vigilance, Seventeen knew, was when your body was on high-alert the entire time. He didn’t know if that was what he was going through, or the rest of them, but he certainly jumped higher than a sane man would have when gravel clattered against his window.

Swearing under his breath and trying to get his heart rate back under control, he lifted his laptop off his lap, setting it carefully beside him on his bed and breathed in and out a few times before making his way to the window.

He opened it hesitantly, peering out into the dark night to see if there was anyone out there, or if it had been the wind – but there was no wind, he realised, leaning further out to try and see where the gravel had come from.

“Lean any further out and you’ll be falling to your death. Please don’t.”

Stunned, Seventeen spun around, looking _up_.

Feet were swinging over the edge of the flat roof, the well worn soles of green Vans. “How the fuck did you get up there?” Seventeen called up, slightly scared for him, as well as amazed, and exasperatedly fond.

Vans pointed at the drainpipe clinging to the wall between the windows of their rooms. “It’s fine, it’s properly bolted in. Climb onto your windowsill, push your feet off that and pull up on the edge of the roof, et voila! Come on.”

Dubious, Seventeen eyed the screws that were holding the old metal against the building. “I’m not-”

“Just _do_ it, ‘teen!”

Grumbling under his breath, Seventeen did as ordered, pushing himself up and grabbing the proffered hand. He’d never had the upper body strength of the rest of his family. “Thanks,” he muttered as he finally landed on the roof with a thud. “You know,” he sighed, brushing down his cardigan (he’d battled through the granddad jokes for the comfort), “There _is_ an actual roof access.”

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” Vans asked, turning and grinning. Even in the silver moonlight his hair seemed golden, eyes a deep grey that just saw... everything. He smiled quietly back, and Vans let his grin fall to something softer, too, before turning back and looking out to the network of crumbling houses and alleys behind the orphanage. “So, which charity was it today?”

Momentarily distracted by the shapes of the clouds, by wondering if the moon was gibbous or not, Seventeen had to pause and think at the question. “Sorry, what?”

“You and your anonymous, generous donations – which charity was it today?”

Oh, those charities. It had started as a way to cure the boredom, to be the Robin Hood from the stories Timmons and Nineteen had told him as a kid (ninety percent of which he was sure weren’t from the originals). And it was getting too easy, to transfer money.

And besides, some of those charities were there to help people like themselves, who weren’t as lucky as to have a marines-wannabe, near Olympic level boxers and two technical genii looking over them.

“Great Ormond’s Street,” he said, shuffling so his legs were swinging alongside Vans’. “And Help for Heroes. You realise Three’s getting more and more determined to join the army?”

“Mm, I know,” Vans muttered. “He was talking to me about it today. He said he’d send the wages to us, help with Eight to build up funds for a flat. He stayed to help Indie, but now Indie’s pushing him to follow his dreams and that shit...”

Seventeen nodded absently, eyes falling from the moon and stars and the frost starting to cover the barren tree tops, to Vans’ face. “What’s your dream, Vans?”

The question seemed to shock Vans, who jumped – just enough to give Seventeen a heart attack about him falling over the edge – and turned to stare, wide-eyed, back at Seventeen. “My _dream?_ ” he echoed.

It was hard not to grin at the astonishment on his face. “Yes, your ‘dream’ – your aspirations, longings, where you see yourself in ten years if Eight gets this flat and we get out of this shithole.”

Reluctance was written into every one of Vans’ features, but he’d say, Seventeen knew. He’d tell him, if he waited. “Paramedic,” Vans confessed silently, lips twitching into a wry smile. “Not that I’ll ever get the qualifications.”

“You’re qualified enough to save our lives on a near daily basis,” Seventeen couldn’t stop himself from saying. “If we get the money, you can take the courses – fuck, I’ll transfer money for you if I have to, sod what Eight says. Okay?”

Vans nodded. “I want – I need to know how to fix stab wounds,” he admitted sadly. “I didn’t, and I need to.”

There was nothing Seventeen could say to that. He wanted to nod, show he understood, but Vans wasn’t looking at him but out into the alleys. So Seventeen followed his instincts, and took Vans’ hand into his own.

Vans jumped at that, again, and this time Seventeen outright swore at him for it. “Fuck it, stop scaring me like! At least get away from the edge if you’re going to be so jumpy,” he snapped.

“Well perhaps if you stop giving me _reason_ to jump,” Vans snapped right back, rolling his eyes but fingers slipping between Seventeen’s, and holding his hand tightly.

“What, I can’t hold your hand?” Seventeen muttered furiously, his mind, in full argue mode, not realising what he’d said until he’d said it.

But Vans didn’t give him time to worry, or to let an awkward silence start, before squeezing his hand and smiling, saying, “Of course you can.”

Seventeen smiled unashamedly, his gaze sliding over Vans’ face once more before returning to the moon. Eventually, Vans’ thumb started to slide over the back of Seventeen’s hand. Seventeen’s smile widened, until it felt like his chest was going to split into two.

“What did I get you for your sixteenth, in the end?” Vans mused, thumb tracing circles onto Seventeen’s skin.

“Set of lock picks,” Seventeen said without pause for thought. “You spent the entire evening teaching me how to use them, practising on Timmons’ bedroom door. Whilst he was asleep in there.”

Vans laughed. “That was it. It’s almost become tradition, I think, passing down lock picking skills. You’re shit at it, by the way.”

“I know,” Seventeen groaned, and Vans laughed again.

“Three actually got me the picks to give to you,” Vans confessed, after he’d stopped scaring Seventeen again by rocking back and forth with laughter. “I had – well, I’d planned on doing some big romantic gesture, declaring my intent and all that shit, but I chickened out.”

It felt like, if Vans said another word, Seventeen’s heart would stutter and fail. His mouth opened without thought but he choked on his words, throat hurting, trying and forgetting to breathe until he finally got out, “I wish you hadn’t. Uh, chickened out, that is. Um. Romantic gesture, I – that would have been good.”

And if Seventeen had thought Vans’ eyes had shone before, that was nothing compared to how they were now as he turned to stare at Seventeen, a smile on his face to match Seventeen’s own. “Really?” he asked breathlessly.

Seventeen nodded frantically back.

“So... if I...”

Seventeen didn’t even know what Vans was going to say but he couldn’t seem to stop himself nodding frantically.

It was alright in the end, though, when Vans leaned forwards, scooped Seventeen towards him and kissed him.

Third kiss, and nothing like the others. The feeling wasn’t buried beneath grief and tears, or what had felt like ten litres of pure ethanol in the morning. This kiss, Seventeen could well and truly _feel_.

It felt like heat and wet and rough skin rubbing against his own. It felt like the late-night, perhaps even morning stubble grazing his chin slightly, teeth nipping at his lips. It felt like Vans holding him in place as he held the back of his head, held his waist, his fingers warm and insistent as they pressed into him. It felt like familiar flannel shirts under his palms, matted blonde hair trapping his fingers as he pulled Vans closer.

It was desperation and lack of practise, but that was all right. They could practise.

They pulled back slowly, ending with another kiss, soft, and foreheads resting together, unwilling to let go of each other just yet. “Gosh,” Seventeen breathed, astonished that he still actually _could_ breathe.

Vans laughed at him, and he grinned.

From somewhere in the house came the loud bang of the front door closing, and a sudden babble of voices, and laughter.

“Eight’s home,” they both said at the same time, and grinned again. They’d been saying things at the same time for years now, but somehow this just made it all _better_.

“I was up here to look out for him coming home,” Vans mused, eyes flickering to the side, looking at the alleys below them. “Guess I missed him.”

“Sorry for distracting you,” Seventeen said, not meaning a word.

“Sure you are.” Vans had always known when he was lying. “...he said he was bringing home the leftover cakes tonight,” Vans said, with a falsely careless tone.

Seventeen grinned, before finally sitting up straight, pulling his hands away from Vans. “Go on, then,” he said with a matching mock weary tone. “Get going. You’d bloody well better help me down, though. I don’t want to fall to my death because you’re an unchivalrous bastard.”

Vans laughed loudly, jumping to his feet and stepping around Seventeen to the drainpipe. “Don’t you worry,” he said, looking at Seventeen with wide, honest, loving eyes. “I will.”

 

*Autumn, 1999*

 

It was the eternal dilemma of whether to stay up and try a few more hacks, or to go and get some rest.

Trying to make the decision, Seventeen peered over the top of both his glasses and laptop at everyone else in the room. Some had gone to bed, so it might be late into the evening, but Brain was still lying on the sofa, Timmons was slouched in a chair texting someone – probably his chick of the week – and Vans was still at Seventeen’s feet, echoing Three’s usual position at Indie’s side, beside his chair. Vans had adopted the position a few weeks back, and it now felt strange, to be sat typing without the press of Vans’ back against his leg as he read through some book or other, varying from ‘Dune’ to some medical journal.

Nineteen, Indie and Three had already gone to bed, then. Eight... “Eight not back from his shift yet?” Seventeen asked.

He felt Vans’ shake of his head against his leg. “Nah, he’s got the later shift tonight,” Brain replied, stifling a yawn towards the end. One of his arms was hanging off the side of the couch, fingers randomly pressing numbers on the remote. The flickering of the TV was a tad annoying, but there’d been worse distractions when Eight had taken later shifts, so no one was daring to say anything. “Actually,” Brain said, suddenly dropping the remote to the floor and swinging upright, “I might go meet him. What time is it?”

“’Bout half ten,” Timmons muttered, not looking away from his phone.

“Great!” Brain cheered, rubbing his hands and Scottish accent coming out in full with his glee as he rose to his feet. “He’ll be headin’ back aboot now, think I’ll go surprise him!”

“Oh dear,” Seventeen muttered, fingers working away at his keyboard again, “Do warn people in the nearby vicinity before you... _surprise_ him.”

He didn’t dodge the blow to the back of his head in time, and he yelped as Brain’s hand collided with his ear. “Yeoch!”

“Mind your tongue young man,” Brain tutted, “Respect to your elders an’ all that! Shame on ye! You would be nothing without my teaching and you know it. I’m the wizened old monk in the mountains to your Batman. I think.”

As Vans laughed, Seventeen leant back and looked at Brain upside down, and grinned. “I’m right and you know it, _monk_.”

Brain scowled for a second longer, before a grin spread across his face as well. “Yeah, you’ve got me there,” he admitted cheerfully. He darted forwards, placing a slobbery, noisy, embarrassing and quintessentially ‘dad’ kiss on Seventeen’s forehead before pretty much dancing from the room.

Groaning, Vans staggered to his feet, pushing up from Seventeen’s knees. “I’d better go after the hyperactive Scottish twat,” he groaned, stretching his long abused muscles and setting his book down on Seventeen’s armrest. “Eight’ll have all our balls if we let him go out alone.”

“The alleys are safe,” Seventeen protested, pleading at him. “Surely you can stay? He’ll be fine!”

“Yes, _we_ all know that, but well – you know what Eight’s like and, actually, I kinda like my balls the way they are.”

“Mm,” Seventeen admitted, smiling at memories. “No, I must say they don’t need _much_ modification.”

Simultaneously, Vans yelled out, “What do you mean _much?”_ and Timmons started to retch.

When Seventeen finally stopped laughing, Vans whacked him just as Brain had, pecked his cheek with a lot more care than Brain had, and kicked Timmons in the stomach before leaving the room.

Seventeen returned his attention back to his computer, and waited.

And waited.

With no clock in the playroom, there’s no way of telling the time. The clock on Seventeen’s computer screen was covered by open windows. If Timmons could see the time on his phone’s screen, he wasn’t sharing.

But the empty space by Seventeen’s legs and on the opposite sofa was a constant reminder of each second that they were away for longer than they should have been.

At some point, Timmons muttered his goodnight and stumbled up to his room, but Seventeen couldn’t bring himself away from the distractions of his computer screen. If he was left without anything to occupy his time, he didn’t know what he’d...

He was worrying too much, he knew that. The alleys _were_ safe, and they might have gone for a drink. Brain and someone else often went to meet Eight after a long shift and often stumbled home drunk at fuck-o’clock in the morning.

Why should now be different?

So at around two a.m., Seventeen forced himself to close the program he was working on, to go to bed.

He couldn’t sleep, without the sound of Vans’ muttering, his heavy breathing as he slept, separated from Seventeen by a centimetre of wall. Each second of silence was another second waiting for the front door to open and close, to hear footsteps on the stairs. And each second that stayed silent was another of a thousand cuts to Seventeen’s skin.

He was scared to call any of them in case they didn’t pick up.

But he didn’t have a choice, when the sun started to rise. It cut through his curtains, undeniable, highlighting the digital clock on his bedside table. 6:04.

With shaking hands, he reached for his phone, speed-dial 1. Eight’s phone, which was always in his front pocket so he would feel it vibrate, and could always pick up.

It rang. Three rings. Four rings. Seven rings.

He could no longer hold the phone next to his head, he was shaking so hard.

He forced himself to climb out of bed, and he should have been tired after a full night without sleep but he wasn’t.

No one was downstairs yet. So he went to Three’s room. He knocked on his door and Three opened, already awake and probably halfway through his morning workout.

“They never came home.”

The words were cold, hanging in the air. He didn’t say who, he couldn’t. He didn’t have to, not really. Three’s face shut down, eyes emptied. He nodded, a hand resting on Seventeen’s shoulder in a pale attempt at comfort, before he went to wake up the others.

“They could be alright?”

Indie was the only one still pretending. Timmons had given up, in the corner of the room, against the wall and face in his hands. Nineteen was pacing by the front window. Three had one hand resting on back of his brother’s wheelchair, eyes closed at Indie’s desperate optimism.

Seventeen was on the sofa, sat where Eight was usually sat, looking down at where Brain’s head would usually be. He couldn’t – sat in his chair, no one leaning against him –

“I mean, they could still be okay, just... wounded, stayed at a pub or something, whilst they get better, have got concussion – I mean, Vans’ the casualty guy, right? He’ll look after them. And I don’t know anyone who’d willingly pick on _Eight_ , I mean, right? Yeah... right?”

There should have been silence after he’d finished talking. Should have been hopeless pause.

But then Nineteen answered him. “No,” Nineteen said, in a voice that was dead. “No, they’re not... they’re not...”

He’d stopped pacing. He was looking out of the window, face pale and furious. He was swaying. He reached out, grabbing the window frame, the only thing keeping him on his feet.

Timmons moaned. “No...”

Indie froze. Then, in a way familiar, in a way like Vans had, before, with Storm, he started to shake.

“No, no, no, no...”

Seventeen sobbed, once, the sound tearing its way through his chest before he stopped. He met Three’s eye, seeing a similar hardness, similar surrender there. Seventeen pushed himself up from the couch. Three turned and strode from the room, Seventeen not far behind him.

Three was at the door first. Seventeen didn’t push him to open it, as he paused on the welcome mat, forehead resting against the wood.

Then someone knocked.

There wasn’t a breath in the room as Three stepped back and flung the door open.

It was a sight from the past. But this time, instead of Storm in Timmons’ arms, it was Brain in Eight’s.

Brain was dead.

Perhaps if they didn’t move, then time would have to find a different end to the story. If they didn’t move, nothing else could happen. They could be frozen here.

But life doesn’t work like that.

“Out of my way,” Eight ordered, in a voice barely more than a broken whisper. He didn’t look like he could see Three or Seventeen. His eyes were red, one swollen and barely visible behind a black eye, the other raw and still shining dull with tears. When neither Three nor Seventeen moved, he said it again. “ _GET OUT OF MY WAY!”_

He roared, screamed, so suddenly that Seventeen’s heart faltered. He fell to one side, Three to the other, grabbing at walls, doors, handles, to stay on their feet. Ignoring them, ignoring everything, Eight walked in complete silence through to the utility room, like a funeral march.

As his eyes followed them, Seventeen’s gaze met Three’s for a second.

They’d both tried to accept the worst, earlier. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t accept this. You couldn’t prepare yourself for something like _this_. With a small gasp, Three sagged against the wall, sliding to the floor. He didn’t look like he could breathe.

Seventeen knew what that felt like.

A gasp, another gasp, brought Seventeen back into the world. Vans. _Vans._

He was standing in the doorway, walking in to the house, wincing with each step he took. He’d bitten through his lip, trying not to cry each time he moved. He was limping, and with terror coursing through him Seventeen reached out, to hold his arm, to help him – but Vans jumped, moaned, and tried to step to the side.

“Vans...”

But the young man just bit his lip harder, blood starting to swell and fall to his chin, and he shook his head. He blinked, and tears fell.

“Leave – l... leave me – don’t...”

It was like his feet had been glued to the floor. He couldn’t move near Vans as Vans slowly, painfully stepped around him, limping with each step, pale and shaking and he couldn’t move, couldn’t hold him or carry him to bed because Vans was... he was _scared_ of Seventeen’s touch. All he could do was watch, as Vans tried to make his own way up the stairs, to his bedroom.

He didn’t know what to do.

In a sweet moment, he was lost in concern for Vans, before he remembered again.

Brain was dead.

Brain, dead in Eight’s arms. Brain, dead on the table where they’d put Storm as they waited for the ambulance to arrive.

Tears were falling without a sound, and his head fell back, his mouth open without words, as Three pulled him around and into a hug.

He didn’t go into the utility room, didn’t need to see the wound that had drawn Brain’s life from him. Didn’t need to see Eight crying over the body of the man he once thought of marrying one day.

He didn’t think he could have withstood the sight of the two men who’d raised him, one dead, and one now dying. Because what else would Eight do, without Brain?

They’d been looking at flats...

In the next room, Timmons was sobbing. In the hallway, Three buried his face in Seventeen’s hair as his youngest brother cried like a child into his chest.

In the utility room, Eight sat beside the man he loved more than himself, lowering the phone from his ear and turning it off. He leant over, brushing brown curls out of Brain’s eyes in a familiar movement, and pressing his lips against his love’s.

Unable to hold back his tears any more, he started to cry. His chest shook with the sobs, eyes wrenching shut and stopping him from seeing Brain’s face. His hands fell onto Brain’s chest, and slowly, he lost control, forehead coming to rest on Brain’s body as he mourned for all they could have had.

*

Seventeen watched from where he was sat at the bottom of the stairs as the people in uniforms and with trolleys and ID came and collected Brain’s body. Eight spoke to them all calmly, giving them details, the Brain’s name, why he had five bullet holes in his chest. He spoke calmly of seeing him gunned down, after Brain had yelled insults at them as they’d punched Eight to the ground, as they heard Vans scream as he was assaulted in another room. He nodded as the police checked what they’d written down, he smiled politely as they told him to call if he remembered anything else, as they gave his condolences and as he gave them his name and phone number again. Eight didn’t wait at the doorway after they left, but shut it after the last officer had gone, walking calmly and quietly through to the playroom.

Low voices started to filter through the walls, people asking Eight if he was okay, if he wanted time alone.

Shaking his head and grimacing at what a fucking stupid question that was, Seventeen climbed to his feet and pulled himself up the stairs. He could make it, if he focused on each step at a time.

It was harder to reach out and push open the door to Vans’ room. Suddenly, after years of barging in unannounced, of throwing himself onto Vans’ bed or stealing his stuff without asking, of pushing the door open with his back as their lips were pressed together, he no longer knew how to.

The tips of three fingers were all it took, eventually, pressing lightly in the centre of the door. But he didn’t step inside.

The curtains were drawn across the one small window, leaving the room in night-like darkness. Vans was curled under the covers, his clothes in a pile in the middle of the floor, and his face was turned down and pressed into his pillow. He wasn’t shaking, wasn’t crying. He was utterly still.

“How are you doing?” Seventeen asked, eventually, his voice as quiet as he could make it.

People with stab wounds he could help. Broken ankles or wrists, kicked in stomachs, concussions he could _deal_ with. This... to _his_ Vans... he didn’t know where to start.

It took a few seconds’ silence, but eventually Vans stirred, his head turning, lifting slightly. He didn’t roll onto his back, but turned to his side enough so that he could speak. “I never was the strong one, Seventeen.”

He spoke with an almost wry tone, sad and amused, and cold, so utterly cold. “You are,” Seventeen muttered on instinct, arm moving to reach out, stepping forwards. “You are-”

But Vans writhed, grimaced and curled back under the duvet. “No,” he moaned, his words muffled by the duvet, the pillow, everything soft he’d buried himself in. “Don’t come – I need to be – do, do you know? What...”

Every inch of Seventeen _needed_ to step forwards, to hold Vans until he felt better, until he felt like his body was _his_ again, and it hurt, all of it hurt so much that Seventeen didn’t think he could ever make it better. But he did as he was told. He helped, in the only way it looked like it could right then. He stayed still. “Yeah,” he breathed, not wanting to say it, not _wanting_ to but knowing he had to. “Yeah, I – I think I do.”

“Then can you – do you understand – I can’t, Seventeen, I – I can’t do this, anymore. I can’t. I’m sorry, I can’t...”

If he’d had any tears left, if he wasn’t too filled with pain to feel sadness, he would have cried at that. If he hadn’t felt so cold and dry and hard that tears felt impossible. “No, don’t – don’t apologise,” he muttered, stepping back out into the corridor. “Don’t... it’s okay. It’s okay.”

It wasn’t. But he left Vans alone and shut the door for him, anyway.

He’d lost him, too.

No one in the house was talking. He passed Indie’s bedroom on his way back downstairs, the door open to show Indie in his wheelchair, eyes closed and leaking tears, and Three, as always, sat beside him and holding his hand. He hovered there, for a second, unsure, before Three looked up and saw him. The smile he gave was a sad one. Seventeen couldn’t smile back.

Three would leave soon, enlist. God knows where in the world he’d be sent, but it’d be somewhere that they couldn’t watch over him. They’d have to hope that his squad would watch his back for them. At least in the army, he’d have a bullet proof vest, and have a gun in his own hands.

Three nodded at him, a silent show of understanding. Then he tilted his head towards the stairs. Understanding, Seventeen nodded back and left them, one last look at Indie.

He didn’t know where Nineteen and Timmons were, possibly in one of their rooms, possibly in the kitchen. He doubted they were outside.

They weren’t in the playroom. It was just Eight there, and he was sat in Seventeen’s armchair, looking down at his hands and frowning. One of his eyes was still swollen, both of them red for crying earlier, but there were no tears now. At the sound of the door swinging open, he looked up, lips twitching into a smile when he saw and recognised Seventeen. “Hey, you,” he said softly, before looking back down at his hands. Frowning again, he rubbed at a scab that was slowly forming on one of his knuckles.

“Can I ...?”Seventeen trailed off, no longer certain about anything.

But Eight just smiled, nothing more than a curl at the corner of his lips. “Yeah, you can stay.”

Slowly, Seventeen walked across to the armchair, and Eight moved his elbow so he could sit awkwardly on the armrest. Seventeen shuffled, trying to find a vaguely comfortable position. He eventually settled for one leg on the armchair, one leg off, and his arm around Eight’s shoulders for balance, and comfort. Eight didn’t respond to his touch.

“I’m going to have to call Mrs Hopkins,” Eight muttered, a nail scratching against a cut running from a knuckle down to Eight’s wrist. “I mean, she probably won’t even – won’t know who I’m talking about, but I should – she should know. Perhaps one of the nurses can explain it to her, or something...”

“Timmons can do that,” Seventeen said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Or Three, or Nineteen... you don’t have to.”

“No,” Eight breathed, shaking his head and eyes closing for a second. “No, I should. I’m the oldest, she knows me best, I kn – knew him, best, it’s... it’s my job.”

The cut was bleeding again, the barely healed skin tearing where Eight’s nails were digging into it. Seventeen reached across, closing his smaller hands around Eight’s, trying to hold them still. His touch must have counted for something, because as his fingers closed around Eight’s his hands stopped moving, and he breathed out, a breath that sounded like the first in a long time.

There were scabs under Seventeen’s skin that he’d never felt before, new cuts that would form new scars. Not that it mattered. “Three’s going to want to try and find them,” he muttered. “He’s not going to trust the police, and it’s what we’ve always done-”

The force of Eight’s reply shocked him, made him stutter over his breath. “No,” Eight said fiercely, his hands tightening on Seventeen’s, “No, he’s not, none of us are ever going to go out there, looking for a fight, _ever_ again. Got it?”

“Yeah,” Seventeen answered, scared and concerned all at the same time. Eight was holding his hand hard enough to cut off his circulation, but he didn’t say anything.

“I don’t give a shit if this means they thing they’ve won, I don’t – _fuck_ , what does it matter? There’s no winning, no losing, just more people _dying-_ ” Eight cut off with a sharp breath, his hands tightening once more, before letting Seventeen go. He froze for a second, tense, jaw clenched and eyes shut, before he managed to calm himself and breathe out. “Sorry,” he muttered, taking Seventeen’s hand back and cupping it gently in his own, encircling it and holding it lightly. “Didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t, it’s fine,” Seventeen said, curling his hand around Eight’s. “And we won’t go out. We won’t. We’ll do whatever you want us to do.”

“Whatever I want?” Eight echoed, his lips twitching into a half smile again. “’Teen – I want to die.”

It wasn’t such a blow. He said it with such a calm certainty that all Seventeen could do was nod and accept it. How else had he expected Eight to feel, anyway?

“You get that, right? I want to not exist anymore, because I don’t know _how_ to. Exist, that is. I don’t know – how am I meant to sleep, alone? How do I wake up? What am I going to _do_ with my day? I can’t picture a life without him, and to be honest, I don’t want to. He’s gone, and... and I want to go with him...” Eight must have felt how Seventeen had stopped moving and breathing, because he turned to smile sadly at him. “I’m not going to,” he said comfortingly, lightly squeezing Seventeen’s hand. “I can’t, obviously. I’ve got to stay and look after you, and the rest of them I suppose. I’ve got to make sure I don’t fail you lot like I’ve failed...”

“You didn’t,” Seventeen said again, filling in the silence when Eight trailed off, his jaw clenched again pain. Seventeen leant forwards, pressing his lips against Eight’s forehead and pulling him into a hug. “You didn’t. You haven’t failed anyone, I promise. You’re wonderful. You’re my big brother, and you’re wonderful.”

Eventually, Eight nodded. “Can you transfer money to our account?” he asked.

“You know I can,” Seventeen replied quietly.

“Tomorrow, we’re going to buy a flat,” Eight said. “And Indie and Three can pick one out, too, and Timmons and Nineteen and Vans can have one as well, wherever they want.”

He didn’t need to explain why he was giving up on trying to save up money.

“I’ll have to sort out the funeral arrangements tomorrow, too,” Eight said, the sentence coming out almost as a curse.

“Indie can find Brain’s birth certificate-” Seventeen started, but Eight shook his head.

“Matthew McLeod, twenty-three,” Eight breathed, eyes falling shut once more. For the first time since Seventeen had entered the room, a tear started to fall down Eight’s face. “He was born in Perth, moved down to London with his English mother when he was five and his dad vanished. She abandoned him here another five months later. I was already here and alone, seven years old. First day, he threw a tantrum in the kitchen. I yelled at him to be quiet. He kicked me in the ankle and stormed off,” Eight recalled with a smile. “Took three years before I finally got an apology out of him, for that.” Eight sighed out, frowning and wiping away his tears with the back of his hand. “I’d started to look at what kind of ring he might like,” he muttered, and Seventeen didn’t know if Eight was even aware that Seventeen was still there, if he cared, but... it felt good, to remember him. “And I’d printed out a few ideas, from the internet, but of course the bastard saw it on the history a few days later and charged at me, asking what girl I was buying jewellery for. Never seen him so silent as when I yelled back at him that I’d been looking at jewellery for him.”

“There,” Seventeen said hesitantly, trying to smile, “There was that time when, wasn’t it Timmons, told him that he’d sold Brain’s laptop on the internet? God, the fury in his eyes – he couldn’t even get the words out. Thank god Timmons had been joking, I was so scared for his health...”

Eight smiled. “Yeah, I was all ready to go and lock Brain in his room, for all our safety.”

Yeah, it was good to remember him.

“Perhaps a flat near Borough Market,” Seventeen suggested, looking down at Eight. He was now crying silently, not even trying to brush the tears aside. “Near Borough Market would be good, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eight muttered, nodding jerkily. Tears started to slip down Seventeen’s face as he leant against Eight, holding on to him fiercely. “Yeah, that’d be good.”

*

_Matthew McLeod._

_My North, my South, my East, and West._

_Ave atque vale._

 

*The aftermath*

 

After the funeral was held, and Brain was buried in the earth beside Storm, it only took another week for the remaining brothers to move out of the orphanage. Timmons and Nineteen picked a flat near the hospice they’d sent Mrs Hopkins to a few years prior. Vans chose to move in with Indie and Three, pointing out that Indie will need a hand to get around after Three finally enlisted into the Marines.

And enlist Three did, climbing the ranks swiftly with his careful intelligence and calm obedience, until he became Captain George Wallace. He isn’t known, among his men, for being emotional, and sentimental, but  he’s known to crack a soft smile when he gets letters from his brother, sometimes even grin at news of his ‘Li’l bro Mikey’ publishing a new book. The books might be kids books, most of them, but the squad dutifully reads them all, passing them round the ranks and yelling loud and genuine compliments when they video-call wheelchair-bound Mike Wallace.

Timmons, to everyone’s genuine surprise, joined the police force, became Constable Timothy Grahame. He said he was trying to make his way to detective, become a suave mofo like those dudes on TV, but when five years later he was still pounding the streets, dealing with simple home issues, abandoned kids and gang crimes, it was pretty obvious he had no designs at becoming a DI. He eventually moved out of the flat he shared with Nineteen when he found himself, not a chick of the week, but a true _lady_. Four years on and he still hasn’t popped the question, but the other day Nineteen was asked by said lady whether Timmons would prefer a silver or gold ring, so no one’s too worried. As she was brash enough to take control with the wedding situation, and, like the rest of them still calls him Timmons, they think she’s gonna fit in just fine.

And Nineteen has got himself a lady of his own, a short feisty woman who runs the taekwondo course at the athletics centre where Nineteen was in charge of track clubs. Even though he now goes by the name of Ben Edwards, all his kids at his club still call him Nineteen, due to his running vest with the large number 19 printed on the back.

Vans passed the paramedics course with flying colours, and is now a certified paramedic working for the NHS, with an ambulance and a nice girl that rides it with him, called Angela. There’s a poll, between the orphans, on how long it’ll be before they shack up. Indie’s got the shortest time, claiming that he wants Vans to buck up and leave him be, to stop crashing back into the house after a shift at fuck-o’clock in the morning. But most of them are pretty certain that Will Kendle is a thoroughly respectable man now, and will wait before dragging her off and having his way with her. Well, as respectable as a man who wears tattered, worn out green Vans with his uniform can be.

At first, ‘Jason’s’ was just a stall amongst all the others in Borough Market, but in time it grew into a coffee shop, known amongst a fair few for making fantastic pastries and a damn good brew, even if the heavy-set man behind the bar has a tendency to sing along with the radio out of tune and off key whilst pouring out the latte, or hot chocolate, or Earl Grey or just a good old fashioned PG Tips, whatever takes your fancy. The young boy – his nephew, the kid’s assumed to be – that helps him out, or sometimes sits at a table with a laptop, is always good for a chat, too, even if he really should be kept away from the kettle. One customer had put it diplomatically that the kid made tea ‘in his own unique way’, which had caused Jason, the owner, to laugh for a good ten minutes straight.

Seventeen never picked out a career for himself. He’d help out serve customers in Three’s cafe, occasionally, but that was it. Unlike the others he’d never really had a dream he’d wanted to follow. He was good with numbers, but the idea of becoming an accountant didn’t exactly... appeal.

So he did what he’d always done.

He made sure that, each month, everyone in the family had enough money to pay the bills. Every now and then he might take money from _there_ , and put it _there,_ somewhere that better deserved it, some charity perhaps.

And yes, perhaps, if he got bored he might test out his skills and see what he could still do, clicking his way into a computer or two. He’d still post pictures of the gang members on police computers, still send anonymous tips, but occasionally he’d get angry and send it to somewhere slightly more important.

After hearing that one of the men from the old estate, one of them they’d all believed to have been amongst the group who’d cut Indie down had been released on good behaviour, in a moment of fury Seventeen took the names and photos of all these men, photos of Indie playing football and running and then sat in his wheelchair after Nineteen and Storm had tried to pimp it up with tinsel one Christmas, and photos of Storm, Brain, and their headstones – he’d taken those photos and sent them to the Prime Minister using the PM’s own email, along with the simple message of, ‘This is your ‘Broken Britain’. This is your country’s spilled blood. What have you done to fix it?’

He sent a copy of the email to the highest member of MI5 – or was it MI6? – whichever dealt with home affairs, anyway, also using that person’s own email.

He kicked himself for the stupid move afterwards, staring at his computer screen with horror. But then Eight’s calling him to come eat his fucking dinner, it’s getting cold and Eight’s going to eat it himself if he doesn’t hurry up, so he closed the computer down and did as instructed.

It takes them 12 days, longer than Seventeen expected, but eventually the black car pulls up outside cafe. Seeing the car from his perch by the window of their flat, directly above the cafe, Seventeen doesn’t wait for them to ring the bell. He puts down the book he’s reading – ‘Case of Exploding Mangos’, and calls out, “I’m just gonna go for a walk – might pop by and see how Indie’s doing, give him some words of wisdom for his new thriller perhaps...”

Eight’s not listening, is singing too loudly as he bakes, but that’s okay.

Seventeen grabs his coat and heads to the door, Eight’s horribly flat singing reaching him even a few steps down and through the shut door.

_Like a drum baby don’t stop beating,_  
Like a drum baby don’t stop beating,  
Like a drum my heart never stops beating for you –

Seventeen sincerely hopes he’ll be able to go back later, mock Eight for his choice of music, but it’s a pale hope.

*

But he does. He does return.

Better than that, he returns home with a job offer in his pocket.

They hadn’t arrested him. Sure, they’d bundled him into a black car and refused to answer his questions, all very Alex Rider, but instead he’d ended up in a Costa, sitting in a small corner booth facing a man with shock white hair, wrinkled hands, deep crows’ feet at the corner of his bright eyes and grin to match them.

The man had quite cheerfully offered him a Belgian bun, forgetting to introduce himself as Q until a few minutes later, after insisting Seventeen took the cherry. He’d explained how they’d figured out who he was, from his ‘little cry of rebellion’, as this old, odd man had put it.

And then, as Seventeen had prepared himself for the warnings, the threats perhaps or even simple statement of how long he’d be in prison for – the man had said that Seventeen had a talent that he was looking for. That, though unperfected, he had skills that the old man dearly needed. He’d spoken at length about a new age, about hacking being more important than lasers fitted to watches. He’d asked if Seventeen would like a job where his silent cry wasn’t so silent, where he could save men’s lives – save his country, perhaps even other countries too. The pay wasn’t too bad, and he’d start off small, but, this old man believed, he would do well under a little bit of training.

It wasn’t until after Seventeen had accepted the job, had shook his hand and taken the envelope with details of where and when, that the man asked him his name. He didn’t look surprised when Seventeen confessed that he didn’t know it.

“Never mind, m’boy,” the man said, grinning and pulling his coat tight around him as they stepped outside. “Perhaps, one day, you can have mine.”

*

It was in a daze that he re-entered his home, only one short hour after having being taken from it. Eight, the bastard, was still singing loudly in the kitchen and probably hadn’t even realised that Seventeen had gone anywhere. Seventeen let the terrible, _terrible_ singing draw him through, until he could see Eight swaying as he rolled pastry out on the marble worktop.

_“Because I'm stuck here on this island, and I've lost her all over again, nothing gets better than memories when all you have are memories for friends, I went searching when-_ what’s up? Hey, are you okay?”

And there had been paper to sign, statutes of secrecy he’d had to make there and then simply for _meeting_ the old man, let alone for taking up a job in MI6, but that counted for fuck all, where Eight was concerned.

He blurted the whole thing out in the space of two minutes, and he doubted it really made sense – it didn’t even make sense to him, and he’d _been_ there – but Eight was smiling, and he looked proud as he dusted the flour off his hands and onto his apron, as he stepped around the work surface and pulled Seventeen into a hug.

And if Seventeen cries when Eight hugs him, lifting him off his feet and mutters, “Brain would be so fucking proud,” – then yeah. He’ll admit to crying in his dad’s arms.

 


	2. Settle down, it'll all be clear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, we come full circle.  
> This scene falls into the timeline of the Skyfall movie.

October, 2012*

 

It was raining. Which was a horrible cliché, but there wasn’t anything to be done about it.

Yet. Give him a few years, enough satellites and he’d see what he could do about it.

But for now, it was unavoidable, and meant that was well as standing around in complete black, he was also holding up a huge black umbrella and peering through your stereotypical London drizzle.

Because, of course, this man would have to be buried in the very centre of London, the country he’d given his life to protect.

 _Trying to protect_ , some cruel and vicious voice in the back of his head said. He frowned at himself. He couldn’t go around thinking stuff like that, not anymore. He wasn’t just some guy behind a desk, not anymore. It was almost unfortunate, that, really. It meant he’d have to start buying decent clothing, not just oversized jumpers from Oxfam and the like.

“Careful, young man,” the elderly man next to him muttered. He looked across blinking in confusion, to see his mentor frowning up at the corner of the umbrella that was slowly giving him less and less cover. “I’m going to start getting wet, soon.”

Immediately, he started to shuffle, holding the umbrella further out to his left, giving the older man more protection. “Sorry, sir.”

“Oh, I doubt a bit of rain is going to do me much trouble. It’s the appearance I’m concerned about. What will people think if I’ve only got half of a wet suit?”

He smirked, and turned away from his old boss back to the funeral going on before them. “That you’re a mad old man, most likely.”

“You watch it. I can still rescind your promotion yet, young man.”

The young man smiled, but said nothing.

It wasn’t until near the end of the whole service that either of them spoke again. “It’s a shame, really,” the younger man said, tilting his head that slightly as he thought. “I would have liked to have worked with him – with ‘the legend’ – at least once.” He sighed, shoulders rising and falling slowly. “Guess I won’t get the chance, now.”

The older man laughed. “Ha! My boy, count yourself lucky! Work with 007? He was a bloody nightmare. If you want to work with someone like 007, trust me, there are plenty more stuck-up twats in that department. Stick to your computers, boy, whenever you can. Avoid the double-ohs whenever you can, especially. You’ve got it right, with your hacking and encoding. Leave them to shoot stuff, pull the triggers that need to be pulled, or whatever.”

The young man smiled again, looking across to the old Q. “Are those your last words of wisdom, sir?” he asked.

“Wisdom? Fuck, no – common sense, if that.” The retired man cleared his throat, adjusted his black jacket, and looked towards the newly dug grave once more. “He wasn’t a bad man, though,” he muttered, so low the young man almost didn’t catch it. “No, truthfully, he wasn’t.” He then cleared his throat again, shot a scathing look at the sky as the grey clouds, and laughed once, shortly, simply. “Bollocks to that.” And he stepped out from under the umbrella. He was soaked through in an instant, but he was grinning. “Keep in touch, son,” he said. “Promise?”

“I promise, sir,” the young man replied, bowing his head slightly as a farewell.

He didn’t take his time, as he walked away, the old man. A few steps, pausing, legs swinging, kicking at patches of overgrown grass, and before he’d reached more than five meters, he turned around one last time, and called back, “Good luck, Q.”

Q smiled at him, and at his back as his old mentor finally headed back to the car, watching until he safely inside, out of the rain, the old fool.

“‘Good luck, Q’ indeed,” Q muttered under his breath, shifting the weight of the umbrella to his other hand and tugging at his oversized mac. His eyes scanned the grave of the infamous 007, M still stood beside it, and the other high-up folks, a some of whom he recognized – and whom he was now part of, he realised. He stuffed his free hand in his pocket, and then, too, turned to make his way back to the cars. “Good luck... oh, let’s _hope_ I don’t need it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the song 'Home' by Phillip Phillips. Because reasons.   
> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> The two songs Eight's singing at the end are 'Gone Gone Gone' by Phillip Phillips, and 'Crash Land' by Twin Atlantic (a scottish band, which is kinda significant). If you want some afterstory about how Eight's dealing with the loss of Brain, it's in those songs. 
> 
> The title of the whole piece is from the song by Plan B, with the same name. This chapter's title is from the song 'Bullet In My Hand' by Redlight King, which was pretty much my entire inspiration for the mood of this piece. Recommend a listen. 
> 
> And of course, I can't post this huge fucking thing without giving a HUGE shout out to LucentPetrichor, who is a mofo LEGEND for editing this and bearing with me when I cried to her about what I was doing to my poor characters and poor Q. 
> 
> Thank you, again, for reading!


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